


In the Deep Midwinter

by rhiannon15900



Series: The Larton Chronicles [3]
Category: TheProfessionals
Genre: A/U, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannon15900/pseuds/rhiannon15900
Summary: Bodie and Doyle 'enjoy' a family house-party and being snowed in.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is by Rhiannon, who is not on line. It's posted with her enthusiastic consent.
> 
> I'll pass on any comments/kudos to her.
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any typos so I can correct them.  
> Hgdoghouse

THE LARTON CHRONICLES

THREE

IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER

RHIANNON 

 

Mr Halliwell cast a regretful glance through the window at the unseasonable December sunshine, then studied his client's sour-milk-at-twenty-feet expression. Not for the first time he wondered if he had been hasty in turning down his Uncle Alfred's offer to set him up as a tea planter in Ceylon.

"The book is still being a problem then?" he remarked.

"Damn thing's stuck fast," complained Mr Raymond Doyle. "No idea how Georgette Heyer managed it. My people refuse to be dashing and romantic like hers - they just sit about bitching and exhibiting as much social grace as Bodie."

"He isn't up with you, then?" said Mr Halliwell. "A pity. I have an illustration job we could put his way."

"No, he isn't," said Doyle. "I've already heard all the regrets from your girls outside. Bugger's off on a horse, chasing about with the rubbish in the Home Counties."

Mr Halliwell deduced with no difficulty that Mr Bodie was off on a hunting jaunt which had, as usual, led to words between him and his partner.

"Look," said Doyle, "I might have to borrow that place you have in Wales - where you sent George when he couldn't come through with chapter twelve. It's like the Dardannelles back in Gloucestershire with shotguns banging away at all hours and muddied oafs on horseback crashing about. I can't hear myself think some days."

"Well," said Mr Halliwell, "we would like you to get on with the book. I hope you like Wales - it tends to be wet. Let me know if you feel you really need to get away from it all. And I hope to see a rough draft from you shortly," he added encouragingly.

"Ha," said Doyle bleakly. "I'd better be off. I have to stock up on the way home. You know, pâté de foie gras, quails' eggs and some decent curry powder. Never heard of the brand they sell at Baggot's Store. It's foul."

He made his farewells of Mr Halliwell's staff, graciously accepting, for Amos, a slice of smoked salmon saved from a sandwich. 

His drive home was uneventful, after pausing to stock up at Gretton supermarket as per Mrs Paget's list. They seemed to be consuming mountains of Vim, he noted. He made another stop at the everything-for-the-farmyard emporium with Bodie's list for the usual array of tins, bottles and plastic tubs of yuck. He was just meditating on what on earth Stockholm Vegetable Tar could be - or be for - when he realised the entrance to the farmyard was blocked by a horsebox. He was about to leap out and give the driver a piece of his mind when he realised it was theirs.

"Oh shit," said Doyle. "He's back early. Just when I needed peace and quiet."

He made his way round to the kitchen, was joyfully welcomed by Sam, and slammed on the kettle. He could hear Bodie and Captain Porter from the riding centre exchanging news as Bodie settled his horse back in its stall. Doyle had disliked Captain Porter on sight and seen nothing since to modify his first impression.

Bodie charged into the kitchen. He looked disgustingly healthy and energetic - much better than when he had left, apart from the black eye. Amos gave a purr and coiled round his feet. Bodie grabbed Doyle into a vigorous hug.

"Lay off," growled Doyle, with an irritated wriggle. "And don't go inviting that sod in for a cup of tea. This isn't a transport cafe, you know."

"No, I've had warmer welcomes in transport cafes," said Bodie, looking injured. "Tim's off back to the Centre. You don't like him, do you?"

"No," said Doyle: "a) he's got a big mouth, b) he's too fond of recruiting you for a drinking partner at the Brewers, c) he's a bloody lazy sod, and d) if I was Jack I'd keep an eye on him."

"Ah," said Bodie. "I wouldn't worry about Agnes's virtue. Mrs Porter will kill Tim if he ever moves in that direction. Would it help if I went out and came back in again? You're not putting out much of a welcome mat."

"You're not welcome," said Doyle. "First, I expected another week of comparative peace and quiet to get on with the book. Second, I've been having your family on the phone every five minutes. I took it off the hook and had half the village round to see if I was unconscious on the floor."

"You've lost weight," said Bodie. "Stopped eating too, have you?"

"Don't you start," yelled Doyle. "I had Jess offering me tempting dishes - seemed to think I was pining for you. Couldn't tell her I can't eat when my writing isn't going well. Oh, sit down and have some tea." He passed over a mug of tea and slab of cake.

Bodie, relieved the first storm was over, sat down. "Well, we've got a good tasty dinner," he said. "Pressie from Auntie."

Doyle looked round suspiciously. "Have you brought anything dead back with you?" he asked, taking a quick look in the fridge in case any feathered corpses were neatly laid out in there. He'd already checked the passageway for anything hung up by its heels, maturing.

"Never forgiven me for that chipped tooth, have you?" sighed Bodie. "It's not my fault they left some shot in the damned bird. No, it's just a salmon. Aunt Maud said why didn't I bring you again? She would have liked to see you."

"You jest!" said Doyle. "I nearly died of hypothermia in that unheated bedroom, then sprained my ankle and spent two days on that hard sofa in the library, surrounded by books on how to kill or maim God's creatures. Everyone was blind drunk by eight-thirty, you were either on a horse or paralytic. How did you get the black eye?"

"Just a misunderstanding," said Bodie blithely. "Let's hope it's not in The Sun."

"You'd better ring Jack later, he's in a snit over something."

"He can wait," said Bodie. "I haven't had my welcome home yet."

"Fool," said Doyle. "All right. Come here."

 

After dinner they settled by the Aga with their drinks.

"That was damned good," said Doyle. "And now you're well fed and lubricated you can give me a hand with the Christmas cards."

"So how are you getting on with the book?" asked Bodie, as they worked through the pile of cards and envelopes.

"I'm not," said Doyle. "Tell you about it again. Jess invited us to Christmas dinner at the farm. I've accepted. Be better than with your lousy family."

"Good," said Bodie. "According to Tim, Ag's bagged James Glenbucket as a visiting Master for the Hunt over Christmas. He'll be going out, so all the big hunting crowd will be there." He sighed. Doyle glared at him. "You remember Jamsie," Bodie went on. "He was over here for the International last year, when we all had lunch at The Dorchester."

"Must have been when someone else was paying the bill," said Doyle. "Oh no! Not that mad Irish idiot who drank doubles like water, sang 'The Minstrel Boy' and told Agnes her face was born to be the ruin of the world?"

"Sounds like Jamsie," said Bodie. "He tends to run mad when Millicent lets him off the leash. He leads a very quiet life down in Mayo - not by choice."

"So we can have a nice quiet Christmas together," said Doyle, "watching all the rubbish on the box. I'll put the book away - I might feel differently about it after a break. Hell, if I write one more card I'll go barking mad. You can't send one of those Snaffles ones to Mr Halliwell, he's anti-blood sports. Here, this one with robins. Make it from both of us."

Bodie picked up a card and studied it closely. "Haven't I seen this design somewhere before?" he inquired.

"Probably," said Doyle. "I found it on your desk. Decided it shouldn't go to waste. Vicar liked it too so we've had some cards printed. We're selling them for repairs to the church clock and tower. About time that clock was fixed."

"Why?" said Bodie. "It's been telling the wrong time for twenty years now. It'll only confuse people, having it fixed. I wish you weren't so progressive. And that you'll be just as generous when I'm after alms for our new church."

"What do you need a new church for?" Doyle inquired. "There's only eight of you at a full house and that includes Father Ryan and his assistant."

"Up to twenty-five now," said Bodie. "We have permission to move out of our draughty tin hut and into a nice warm building. As soon as we get the money and a piece of St Elfleda we are away."

"Yuck," said Doyle. "Bloody medieval. I'll have to warn the vicar that popery's on the march again. Now, let's see..." He began to sift through the cards and threw one out. "We are not sending Amy a card. It will only encourage her."

"She sent us one," said Bodie. "And invited us to her Hunt Ball."

"Which," said Doyle, "we will not be attending. I've been to one, remember? Terrible the things that went on."

"Yes," said Bodie regretfully.

"Oh God, is that the time?" Doyle sprang to his feet.

Bodie watched in surprise as he began to haul on extra clothing: another pair of socks; jersey; fur-lined boots; jacket, and then wrapped his scarf firmly round his neck and pulled on his mittens.

"You're off out, then?" Bodie inquired.

Doyle gave him a look as he zipped up his jacket with difficulty. "Bloody carol service. I'm playing the harmonium," he said gloomily. "Volunteered like an idiot, didn't I, when old Mother Braithwaite came down with rheumatics. Hope they've remembered to turn the heat on this time. I shouldn't be more than an hour. Have a hot drink ready, I'm likely to need it."

"Right," said Bodie. He settled himself on the sofa with the weekend paper, a large bag of crisps and Sam draped over his feet. Doyle looked at them enviously then plunged out into the night.

Bodie was just considering a lager (the crisps had been salty) when the phone rang. He considered not answering it, then reluctantly stirred himself.

"Parsons Farm," he announced in his thickest Irish brogue.

"Don't play the fool, Will," said Lord Bicester. "Bad news, I'm afraid. That idiot Porter fell and broke his ankle tonight coming out of the Brewers so I'll need you to take his classes for the rest of the week. I can't help out m'self , I'm all tied up with this rubbish Agnes has on for Christmas. See you in the morning then?"

There was a strained silence.

"Yes," said Bodie through gritted teeth. Just when he needed a couple of days with Ray - some fence building was needed there.

He glanced at the clock. Better put the kettle on. Very shortly he heard the side door open. Doyle entered strictly on autopilot as he made his way to the Aga; he was patriotically red, white and blue with cold. Bodie hurriedly poured a good slug of rum into his hot drink and passed it to him. Doyle settled in front of the Aga, dragged off his boots and planted his feet on the front. Bodie waited for the smell of scorched sock and shriek of agony, but none came. Bodie supposed Doyle was too numb to feel anything. He fetched a rug from the bedroom and tucked it round Doyle, then planted Amos on his lap for extra warmth.

"They didn't have the heating on then," he said.

Doyle closed his eyes. "Too right. Vicar forgot to tell the verger. Usual story. We all sat there done up like arctic explorers. No wonder old Ma Braithwaite gets rheumatics. I'm just surprised they haven't had to chip her frozen body away from the harmonium before now."

"I'm having a word with the vicar," said Bodie. "Not having you down with bronchitis again. I didn't know you could play the harmonium."

"Didn't catch it deliberately," said Doyle. "It's my London chest." He produced a highly dramatic wheeze. "Have a lot of hidden talents, I do," he added smugly.

Bodie grinned and gave him a friendly cuff, which spilt some of Doyle's toddy and got him yelled at.

 

Doyle glared at his library book and made another note on his bedside notebook. It was invaluable for a writer, though it did gain some odd messages like 'light-bulbs!!'! That was the eighth mistake he'd found in the first ten pages of this historical epic. He must have a word with Linda on the Library Van; not up to their usual standard at all. At least he was starting to warm up now. There was a rap on the door.

"Ray?"

"Come in," said Doyle.

Bodie entered, carrying two glasses. "Nightcap," he said. "I saw your light was still on and thought you might like a hot drink. That looks exciting, from the cover."

"Like most covers it's deceptive. Real load of rubbish. Thanks for putting my blanket on. Feel less like an icicle now. Hope you're not lurking with intentions - it's too damned cold for that."

"No," said Bodie with a sigh. "My back's giving me hell so your virtue is safe. I had a fall on my last day out with the lads."

Doyle put down his book and whipped open Bodie's towelling robe. "Bloody hell," he said, taking in an expanse of bruises and grazes. "I might have known. Get the ointment and Deep Heat."

Bodie modestly covered himself up again and went for the tins.

"It wasn't Piper's fault," he said on his return. "Er, would you mind warming your hands first? He cast a shoe. I had to take out this big awkward lump that had four left feet. He tripped over a hummock. I was distracted - haven't left a saddle that fast in years." He gave a reminiscent grin.

Doyle sighed and started the first aid, ignoring the yelps of protest. "Suppose all the other idiots fell about laughing," he remarked. "You never did say who did this for you before I came along."

"Didn't I?" said Bodie. "They had warmer hands, too. Hell, that hurt!"

"Good," said Doyle. "Now you can give me a cuddle and get off to bed."

"Can I borrow your book?" asked Bodie. "I haven't a thing to read in my room."

"Your room's full of books! All right, see how many mistakes you can spot. It's one of those 'Gramercie, fair maiden' sort. Funny, Linda on the van usually gives me good ones."

"Linda, eh?" said Bodie. "Now, about that cuddle..."

There was a short but enjoyable scuffle.

"Idiot," said Doyle, sorting himself out. "Now I'm covered in Deep Heat too." He hit Bodie smartly on the head with the book. "Here, and don't start singing at five a.m. when you go to muck out. I need my rest," he commanded.

oOo 

Doyle glared at his companion, who was spreading butter thickly on his bread. "All that cholesterol is very bad for you," he announced. "Why don't you try the Golden Churn?"

"It's foul," said Bodie. "I told you not to open the morning post till after breakfast, especially when you think it's bills."

"Which reminds me," said Doyle. "Will you stop sticking things behind that bloody clock! We had the final demand for the phone bill while you were away. You needn't worry. I've paid it."

"I wasn't," said Bodie. "It's still here, isn't it?"

Doyle opened his mouth to express an opinion, then sneezed loudly. "Oh, hell," he said wearily.

Bodie looked at him. "You're getting a cold," he accused.

"And why shouldn't I have a cold?" said Doyle aggressively. "Half the damned country's down with the flu. The only reason you're not is because germs are repelled by a strong smell of horse."

"Yes," said Bodie complacently. "Acts like an aphrodisiac with the ladies, too."

"They must be mad," said Doyle, sniffing hard.

"You disappoint me," said Bodie. "You should have leapt on me then, incensed with jealousy, tearing my clothes off and having your evil way with me."

Doyle looked at him. "You jest," he said. "By the time I'd ripped off your woolly jumper, shirt, thermal vest, corduroy breeches, long woolly socks and whatever, I'd be worn out before I got down to the good stuff. Anyway, it's too cold and I'm too weary. My life has fallen into the sear of the yellow leaf, and all that stuff."

"No, you're always like this when you feel rotten," said Bodie cheerfully. "Book's still not working, is it."

"Right," said Doyle and relapsed into a moody silence.

Bodie pulled his jacket on and looked at him worriedly. "I want to discuss something with you tonight," he said. "Hell, is that the time? Jack will be doing his nut, with Porter still laid up."

"'Bout time that bastard put in a day's work," said Doyle thickly.

Bodie gave him a quick hug then hurried out. Doyle heard their estate car hurtling out of the yard, crossed his fingers, blew his nose and took his second dose of instant cold cure - which as usual, didn't. He read through the previous night's work, then sat back to consider his options. It was no good, he loathed his heroine, not to mention his hero. Was it fair to foist this load of junk on his faithful readers? He worked on it for a while, hoping things might improve, then stopped to make a soldiers' saviour, Bodie's favourite remedy for all that ailed you.

Settling on the sofa to think for a moment, thanks to the soldiers' saviour, when he awoke Bodie was back and trotting around the kitchen.

"Bloody cold out," he said. "Could be a white Christmas." He put the kettle on.

"Make one for me too," said Doyle. "Oh hell, I meant to get something out of the freezer."

"Sit down," said Bodie. "I'll throw something together. How are you and the book?"

"I'm not so bad. As for the book, you can read what I've written later. I'd like to hear what you think. Go on, move over, I'll do us some spaghetti. It won't take long. Did they give you lunch at the Centre?"

"Yes," said Bodie. He eyed the manuscript. "Should I leave this till after I've eaten?"

"Definitely. And stop chewing on my neck, I'm not on the menu."

Later, after a mountain of spaghetti, Bodie read through the manuscript. He put down the last page and looked at Doyle.

"Go on," said Doyle. "What do you think of it?"

"You can do a lot better than this. I can tell you hate writing it."

Doyle sighed. "Absolutely right. Light romance and Regency romping just is not me. Pity, I did a load of research, too. Thought at first it was a nasty case of writer's block. Well, what am I going to do? I had a big advance for this book and we have spent it all."

"Have we?" said Bodie. "On what?"

"Just like you," said Doyle. "I suppose you thought that sofa you're lying on was left by the pixies, or Santa. Then there was the rates, the re-plumbing in the bathrooms, that piece of land I bought..."

Bodie's face brightened. "You didn't tell me about that. We could do with a bigger exercise paddock."

"It's too boggy. It's going to be a water garden," said Doyle, with a steely note in his voice. "And if I find one horse paddling in my pool..."

"Ah," said Bodie. "Well, it's a grand sofa. Does wonders for my back."

"Good. So if you want to keep on enjoying it, think about what we are going to do. It's a good thing you have a paying job."

There was a short silence.

"I was going to mention that," said Bodie. "I have till the New Year, anyway. Had a big row with Agnes. Told her what she could do with the job and gave in my notice. Never mind, we still have my pension and I'll find something," he added with confidence.

Doyle looked at the ceiling and sighed. "I knew it would come to this. We'll end up selling matches in the street while the workhouse looms and destitution stares us in the face."

"You're not mad, then," said Bodie with relief.

"No, more resigned. I had Agnes on the phone, telling me how you hauled some sprig of the nobility off his horse and knocked him into the middle of next week - losing her a large fee. She seemed to take that personally. I told her money wasn't everything. She didn't seem to agree."

"No-one," said Bodie, "treats a horse like that little shit was doing in front of me and gets away with it. He had spurs on, for heaven's sake. Ag is letting some right rubbish into the classes. All they have is money. I'm not paid to coddle rough-handed loud-mouthed brats. I was there to teach decent horsemanship."

"You won't get into trouble?" asked Doyle worriedly.

"No. His father came round. I told him what happened. He took a look at the horse and said I should have hit young Adrian harder. That's why I don't take Flash down there any more. He was ideal for nervous riders but I'm not having his mouth damaged by that ham-handed lot."

"That's my lad," said Doyle. "It's all right, love. I've seen this coming. Get us a drink each. That whodunit you like will be on in a minute. We'll watch that and to hell with the lot of them."

 

Later, sprawled over and beside Bodie on the sofa, Doyle was taking a very roseate view of life. He helped himself to another handful of crisps, casually brushing crumbs off onto his partner as they watched the last moments of the film.

"I told you he did it," said Bodie triumphantly.

"Mindless rubbish," said Doyle, "but entertaining. That plot had more holes than a colander and the police work was farcical. I'm sick of bone-headed country policemen being helped out by brilliant amateurs with titles - and flats in Grafton Square."

"That's it!" said Bodie. "You write a good old-fashioned whodunit. You'll have the police work dead right. Set it in the country - no-one wants to read about murder in darkest Fulham. I haven't read a good one in ages. They're all mad on sex now - it's boring."

Doyle looked at him in fascination. "No, I couldn't," he said. "It's a very old-fashioned genre, written by nice middle-class ladies living in cathedral closes with well-tended gardens. I used to meet them at those awful literary luncheons. Have to admit, they were better company than the would-be Hemingways or Angry Young Men. Had more conversation for a start."

"You have a well-tended garden," Bodie pointed out. "The villagers are always admiring it. Never give my horses any credit for the luxuriant growth."

"Don't be coarse," said Doyle. He giggled suddenly. "I know two things about a horse, and one of them is rather coarse," he recited, then had another sip of wine. "Who said that, Bodie?"

"You," said Bodie promptly. "And while you're up, bring another bottle over - save too many trips."

Doyle weaved his way back, bearing a second bottle of wine, just in case. "Going to regret this in the morning, you know," he warned. "Still, you could be right. I need to write something different. Yes!"

He bounced to his feet again, staggered slightly, and dug out a large notepad. "Here, you take notes while I dictate."

"Just remember I don't do shorthand or work on an empty glass," said Bodie.

Doyle refilled the waiting glass. "Go to work on an egg," he said solemnly. "All right, now let's go. Scene, a picturesque manor house in the Home Counties. I'll use your cousin Simon's - without that bloody swimming-pool. Has to be near enough to London for people to be able to dash up there with nefarious purposes. Set it in the thirties, I think."

"I wondered why Simon's expensively heated pool had been scrubbed," said Bodie.

"Don't interrupt, please," said Doyle. "But rural enough for someone to - say - listen to the sad song of the nightingales. Fair makes you want to weep. Walled garden, stables, tennis court, the lot. Time, in the deep midwinter."

They harmonised the carol for a moment.

"No nightingales," said Bodie firmly. "Not in December. They will all have their little heads down."

"All right, Percy Edwards," said Doyle. "'Tis the raven himself that croaks'. Don't write that."

"Nice line, that," said Bodie. "Evocative."

"Yeah. Will thought so too," said Doyle. "Let's press on - and shift that hand!"

oOo

The next morning Bodie stepped carefully round the kitchen, searching for the Alka Seltzer. Doyle was seated at the table, holding his head in case it fell off.

"Ray, get this down you," Bodie instructed.

Doyle reached out a shaking hand and took the glass. "Never again," he said fervently. "Do you have to eat breakfast in front of me?"

"I'm hungry," said Bodie, dropping another slice of bread in the sizzling bacon fat. Doyle gulped and fled to his study.

An hour later, having reluctantly decided to live after all, Doyle emerged for a reviving cup of coffee and noticed with surprise and relief that Bodie had cleared the washing-up. He picked up the large notepad from the sofa and began to read. After a while he reached for his glasses, sat down and began to make more notes. He was still busy when Bodie returned from work.

"What's cooking?" Bodie inquired.

"You are," said Doyle absently. "I must get on with this. Make me some toast, will you? Open a tin or something."

"I picked up a pie from Jess. Had an idea your head would be down, working. Just have to put it in the oven. How's it coming?"

"The pie, my head or the masterpiece? I'll let you know later," said Doyle. "You know, I feel like ice cream."

After dinner, as they both consumed ice-cream, Bodie read through the plot summary and extra notes.

"I like it," he said finally. "Sounds like the sort of book I'd want to read."

"Good," said Doyle. "Now all I have to do is persuade Mr Halliwell to persuade my publisher he'd rather have this book than the other rubbish. Shouldn't be a problem. Anyway, it's Halliwell's, not mine. I won't bother to read up on the Hunt stuff, I can pick your brains for that. It's going to be very popular, making my victim an MFH."

"Surprised you didn't have him eaten by his hounds," said Bodie. "Happened, you know. In Ireland. To - "

"Not over my ice-cream!" said Doyle. "In fact, not at all. God, you're full of gruesome stories, and it's the cheerful look on your face while you tell 'em that makes 'em worse."

oOo

Muttering darkly, Doyle searched his desk. Where the hell was that bill from Forizo for the seaweed and blood and bone fertilizer? He liked his plants to enjoy a varied diet. He paused and looked suspiciously at the clock on the mantlepiece. Yes, the inevitable bunch of papers were stuck behind it. He turfed them out. Now let's see... Water rates - not due already, surely. Grocery bill, letter from A.J. Allen, horse bookshop. Hang on, let's see...

'Dear Mr Bodie, I am afraid we have to draw your attention to the unsatisfactory state of your charge account. No doubt this has just slipped your notice, but...'

"Bodie, I'll kill you," said Doyle firmly.

A.J. Allen. Problem solved. That's Bodie's Christmas present. I'll pay off his charge account. Almost as good as giving him the damned books, and a lot less trouble. He made out the cheque, put it with a letter in an envelope and sat back with satisfaction, then swore and resumed his search for Forizo's bill.

oOo

On the morning of Christmas Day Doyle looked at the bright green eggs ready and waiting for him unappreciatively. The colour was startling. No doubt Bodie meant them to be festive. It was best not to inquire. Himself was whistling happily at the stove, constructing a huge fry-up.

"Eggs all right?" Bodie inquired.

"Um," said Doyle. "Nice and hard, the way I like 'em. Shove over the paprika. I heard you coming home - about three, was it? You fell over the step."

"So I did," Bodie admitted. "We had a few jars after Mass. Good thing I wasn't stopped on the way home."

"Amos is going to have that mouse in shreds by dinnertime," said Doyle.

Bodie, deftly sidestepping Amos who was flinging his catnip mouse about the kitchen with enthusiasm, agreed. Sam was curled balefully in his basket, wearing his new flea collar - a present from Doyle. He seemed to have taken the gift as an insult. Bodie settled with his meal, took a forkful, then gazed solemnly at Doyle.

"It's funny not going out first thing to see to Piper," he said. "I hope he's all right. I'll ring Jack later, remind him about his bottle of Guinness."

"Oh my Gawd," said Doyle. "I keep expecting to hear 'And he's never stayed away from home overnight before'. Now look, he's in a nice modern stable with all mod. cons. He's got Miranda, young Toby and Jack dancing attendance on him with congenial companions to talk to. He probably won't want to come home at all. Personally," he went on, "I'm finding it pleasant not being awakened at 5 a.m. by Piper kicking his door demanding breakfast. Flash seems to prefer to sleep late. Besides, you've left him with me before now."

"I know," said Bodie, still looking like a concerned parent. "But I trust you with him."

Doyle shook his head as Bodie left to give Flash his Christmas breakfast. I suppose that's one of the nicest compliments he's paid me, he thought.

Bodie finally returned with a package and envelope. "Here," he said. "I think the size is right. I took an old one of yours in to measure it by. The lady at Scotch Wool said you could put it in the machine. The other's a voucher from the Garden Centre at Gretton. I thought you'd like to pick something there yourself."

Doyle was wriggling into his new jersey with alacrity. "This is great," he said. "Thanks. I'll get myself a good clematis - I rather fancy having one twining up our back wall. Here," he handed Bodie an envelope. "I found your final demand over the charge account at A.J. Allen. I thought I'd clear it for you. Stop you worrying about it."

There was a silence.

"That was very thoughtful of you," said Bodie, who hadn't been worrying about the account at all. He did his best to look appreciative.

Doyle looked at him and sighed. "All right. And there's a bottle of Irish whiskey in the cupboard there and a new pair of green wellies in my wardrobe."

Bodie grinned broadly. "Thanks," he said with feeling. "Let's have one now."

He was just opening the bottle while Doyle stood by the Stone's Ginger when the phone went.

"You keep on with that," said Doyle. "I'll answer the damn thing."

"If it's Jack, ask about Piper," Bodie instructed.

"Oh Jack," said Doyle. "Before you start, how is Piper? He's fine. Bodie, it's for you."

Doyle picked up his drink and took it upstairs with him, cogitating on what to wear for Christmas dinner at Highgreen Farm. Jack could, he knew, meander on for hours on the phone about nothing at all. He wondered idly about an Event Agnes was supposed to have on over the festive season, source of much rumour in the village, though Doyle doubted that they would be there.

Now, I'll need my wellies for the trot round the farmyard, he thought, take the jersey for then, too. He began to sort out his best clothes while half-listening to Bodie on the phone. He seemed to be arguing; his accent got much thicker in times of emotion. Doyle heard him replace the receiver then explode in some fine Irish curses. Bodie invariably swore, made love and cooed in Piper's ears in his native woodnotes. Doyle often wondered about asking for a translation. But then you know what those operas come out like. It's about time Bodie was getting ready.

"Bodie! Get a move on!" Doyle yelled. "I don't want to be revving up the car and you still in the bathroom."

"Bad news," said Bodie. He appeared in the doorway wearing his lowering Heathcliff expression. "I won't be getting that time off. They need me for this damned house party Agnes is throwing."

"Oh no," said Doyle. "We are going to spend Boxing Day happily watching Where Eagles Dare on TV so you can be rude about it, me not stirring from the Aga and you with your wellies off for once, not careering halfway over Gloucestershire in peril of life and limb."

"I know," said Bodie. "I was looking forward to it. But Glenbucket's gone and broken his leg. They have him in traction."

"Not a horse, is he?" asked Doyle, concerned.

"No," said Bodie. "It's Jamsie, the eleventh Earl. Remember I told you about him? The idiot fell down the steps of his wine cellar. Millicent wanted to shoot him, she'd been relying on his fee to clear some back bills. Agnes had him all lined up as her main attraction - and there's more." He paused.

Doyle poured them each another drink. "I have a feeling we are going to need this. Now, Bodie, start at the beginning. I'll let you know if you lose me along the way."

"Well," said Bodie, "it seems Agnes had this idea to throw Campden Park open for Christmas and New Year - to invite a select group of tourists to stay and enjoy a real Dickensian Christmas in a genuine stately home, filled with a genuine stately family. You know the sort of thing. 'Come to gracious Campden Park, lived in by the Fanshaw family (when funds permitted) for over three hundred years. Thrill to the haunted room, tremble at the dungeons ... '"

"What dungeons?" Doyle inquired. "The house was only built in 1640."

"On ancient foundations," said Bodie. "Remains of Druidic temple in the garden where village maidens were sacrificed in nameless rites."

"Just a moment," said Doyle. "You are referring to four times Great-Uncle Herbert's Folly, are you not? Admittedly in a ruinous condition. Whatever he did with village maidens, sacrifice wasn't on the agenda. I've seen the bills for that Folly, one of 'em hasn't been paid yet."

"They won't know that," said Bodie. "And it goes on - 'Meet the aristocratic Fanshaw family whose title dates back to the Crusades ...'"

"It does not," said Doyle.

"' ...enjoy a typical English county gathering. Thrill to the pageantry and colour of the local Hunt...' Well, you get the picture."

"Oh, I do," said Doyle. "So a typical country gathering at the home of the aristocratic Fanshaw family would be you, with a glass in your hand talking about warble flies, Colonel Heaton talking about his time in Afghanistan, and pompous Potter talking about the village drains. It's a less than exciting prospect. And the vicar too, talking about the church fabric's need for constant support. Still, I suppose he and the colonel are a start."

"Colonel Heaton is at a cavalry club reunion dinner and the vicar is at some clerical round-up," said Bodie. "Jack had a flaming row with Crispin Gould in the Brewers last week, so the local politician is out, too."

"Ah," said Doyle. "What about a showbiz personality? That actor who drinks, lives over at Birtle Gap? He did all right at the flower show."

"He is hardly County," said Bodie with hauteur.

"Snob," said Doyle. "We haven't a spare Royal so who is she getting?"

"Me," said Bodie. "I have a title. It's an obscure but perfectly genuine, old Irish one."

There was a thoughtful silence.

"You never mentioned before that you had a title," said Doyle, looking at his companion as though he'd just developed a social disease.

"Why should I?" said Bodie. "I never use it. And take that look off your face, it's not like the Hapsburg jaw, or hereditary madness."

"You know my views on titles," said Doyle. "Load of gilded parasites sapping the life-blood of the country."

"What do you mean, parasites?" yelled Bodie. "Jack and I pay our taxes like everyone else. And I'm not even a British subject."

"I wish you were," Doyle yelled back. "I'm living with an alien. You could be a spy."

"For who?" said Bodie. "It's a good thing I don't take you seriously, Doyle."

There was a moment's silence.

"I'll put the kettle on," said Doyle. "Get some mince pies out. We need a break."

They both ate a mince pie and had some coffee.

Doyle looked up. "OK, that was my fault. I forget some things aren't funny to you. But shouldn't you have married and bred to carry on the line and all that rubbish?"

"Charles has three strapping lads," said Bodie. "His Denis will do, unless he breaks his neck point-to-pointing. He has a very poor seat on a horse."

"Oh well," said Doyle philosophically. "I'll have my feet up on the Aga, keeping nice and warm while you're going round doing your impersonation of Old Mother Riley's slightly posh nephew. I'll enjoy the peace and quiet and think about you."

"However," Bodie began, taking a quick look at the clock, "Agnes does feel that I alone am not an adequate replacement for dear Jamsie. I haven't his charm and savoir faire, she says. So she decided what was needed was a literary gent - preferably one whose books actually sold in the States. Someone witty, handsome and charming, who wouldn't mind giving up his Christmas holiday to help out."

"Did she now?" said Doyle. "Do I happen to know this paragon?"

Bodie nodded.

"Thought so," said Doyle. "It would have been tactful of her to inquire first if I wanted to take part in her damned charade."

"You know Agnes," said Bodie. "Single-minded. She was sure you'd enjoy having some good dinners and meeting interesting people rather than spending your time watching me emptying glasses."

"Was she now?" said Doyle. "Look, Bodie, you go upstairs and change. I'll have a word with Ag and Jack - see if we can't come to an arrangement. It might be fun."

Bodie looked at him in disbelief, then retired to change.

Doyle rang Campden Park and said he would be happy to help out with the Countess of Bicester's little problem but that a few things had to be discussed first - like the transferring of whatever they had been going to pay Jamsie to himself, and more importantly, the matter of Bodie's dismissal. Had Agnes in fact considered that it would also entail dissolving the partnership agreement between her husband and Bodie, who would naturally require a full cash settlement?

Doyle gathered from Agnes's remarks that she considered he was being mercenary, unsporting and acting like a tradesperson. Doyle remained unmoved.

Then Jack came on. "Er, Ray, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement," he said. "You know Will's always been very easy-going in these things."

"I know," said Doyle. "That's why I insisted you draw up a binding agreement. I wasn't having you and Agnes stitch him up. And tell her to stop coming the officers and gentlemen bit with me - I'm neither. I also want a decent salary for Bodie while he's working at the Centre - and stop giving him the rubbish to teach. I know you've been paying him peanuts as he's family - and what you're raking in on profits. If you don't fancy doing that I'm sure he can find a decent job elsewhere, with his severance pay to tide him over."

After a few more minutes of bargaining Doyle reached what he considered to be a satisfactory settlement, which for the moment he'd keep to himself. Bodie was inclined to resent interference in his affairs, even though Doyle considered his interference was definitely called for at times. He also suggested that Millicent Glenbucket receive the fee instead of himself, reflecting that she probably had as hard a row to plough with Jamsie as he did with Bodie at times. Jack agreed and he said he hoped to see them both on Boxing Day morning, Doyle having firmly vetoed his Christmas Day being ruined.

"Everything all right then?" asked Bodie as they finally set off for Highgreen Farm.

"Oh, I think so," said Doyle. "I'd better pack my thermals for the old ruin. Any idea how many will be there? Jack was rather vague on that."

"Fifteen to twenty, I believe," said Bodie. "Plus the family, of course. Then Agnes said people might be dropping in. Think she is hoping for Beaufort. Toby brought some of his schoolmates back with him - their parents live abroad."

"She would," said Doyle. "Just as well they had the spare, wasn't it? I know Rodney was a mess, but - "

Lord Bicester's elder son had finally ended his entirely unsatisfactory existence some ten months previously by crashing a borrowed car at over a hundred miles an hour. His parents, though grieved, were hardly surprised and now pinned their hopes on the spare, the Honourable Thomas Fanshaw, a large, cheerful if dim youth, described accurately by his Uncle William as "not twelve to a shilling but a good lad on a horse", to which Doyle had replied, "Correct, but that won't be noticeable in the company he'll be keeping."

"Why Toby?" Doyle added as they drove along. "His name's Thomas, isn't it?"

"Oh," said Bodie. "Seems they were out with the lad in his pram one day and saw a Punch and Judy show. Jack swears young Thomas was the spitting image of the dog. Anyway, they never liked the name. Just hoped Jack's old Uncle Thomas would leave the lad a packet. He didn't. Left it to his gondolier."

For some reason the remark convulsed Doyle for the rest of the journey. "I don't believe you," he said finally. "Not that big red-faced guy in hunting pink in the hall?"

"Why do you think he went off to live in Italy?" asked Bodie. "Was a great scandal in its day. And here we are," he added as they inched the car into the already jam-packed yard. 

They emerged to be greeted by Ashley and informed that the kitchen table had been extended by another two leaves to get everyone in, and they were just in time for pre-dinner drinks.

It was a magnificent meal, followed by a pudding tastefully engulfed in blue flames, followed by fruit, nuts and oranges and an orgy of cracker-pulling. Doyle finally retired to sleep it off in the farm parlour, blissfully warm and awash with cats. He woke to find several were now using him as a mattress, some smelling strongly of rum sauce. There was a sort of murmuring in the background. He pried open a sleepy eye and saw Bodie sitting across the hearth reading Alice to a small, blue-eyed charmer on his knee. Doyle enjoyed it too, till a cry of "Tea's up" was heard, upon which the moppet thanked Bodie and departed at a gallop.

"Genesta, Fred's grand-daughter," said Bodie. "She took fright at a video the brats were looking at. Fancy some tea?"

"No way," said Doyle. "Save me a mince pie for later. I couldn't get another morsel down. Where do they put it all? Tell Jess I'll just have another nap."

He revived in time to enjoy a late mince pie and several glasses of mulled wine. "Of course," he remarked to Bodie as they drove home, "we could ring up and say we've both come down with bubonic plague. Watch out, rumour says there's a speed trap along here."

"Ah yes," said Bodie, slowing considerably. "And just where I thought he'd be, too. Bet he'll be busy. I don't think they'd believe bubonic plague. According to Ag's scenario we don't know each other and have been spending Christmas Day with our loved ones. She felt it was more convincing than saying here's my brother, he's got a title, and the writer chap who lives with him."

Doyle decided not to contest the last statement, merely beaming affectionately at his companion, and saying, "And so we were with our loved ones."

Bodie, slightly startled, put it down to the mulled wine, in proof of which Doyle remained in a very mellow mood for the rest of the trip home, which was as well, as the only film they had not seen before on the box appeared to be a two-hour advert for helicopters.

"They are hitting a new low," said Doyle. "Every year it's the same. They see if they can make it more memorably awful than last year, and succeed. What was Fred Stebbins going on about to me at dinner? Couldn't make it out with the din. Something about Old Jessup's wife."

"Oh, that," said Bodie. "Well, they said she went off with a salesman, but he never would plough one end of the bottom field, and no-one ever saw her again. Fred thought you might like to put it in a book."

"Delightful," said Doyle. "Can't think why I'd want to, unless I felt like a libel action. He is dead, is he?"

"Oh aye," said Bodie. "About fifty years ago now."

oOo

Next morning found them packing for Campden Park.

"I'm wondering if I should pack coal, fire-lighters and an oil stove," said Doyle. "I'm not risking hypothermia in that house. There's corridors no-one's been down since Victoria's Golden Jubilee."

"I'm surprised you're not taking your electric blanket," said Bodie, being funny.

Doyle brightened. "Just the job, and I hope it puts up his electricity bill, too."

Bodie gave up trying to remember if all the rooms were equipped with electric points, a more important matter had gripped his attention. "I'm not sleeping on those wires," he said firmly.

"Of course you're not," said Doyle. "I never sleep with men I don't know, and you might damage my blanket. Take a hot-water bottle with you if you want home comforts."

Bodie turned outraged blue eyes on him. "Am I to understand I'm sleeping alone till New Year's Day?" he inquired.

"Absolutely," said Doyle. "There are the feelings of your sister's servants to be considered, there are children in the house, and it serves you right for mucking up my holiday."

Indignant protests followed Doyle to the car as they crammed in a sack of cat litter, their evening clothes, Sam (still wearing his flea collar), Amos (complaining in his cat carrier) and Kasper. Doyle looked askance at Bodie's saddle, hunt jacket and boots, which were also crammed in and looked at Bodie inquiringly.

"Just in case," said Bodie blandly. "Someone might drop out."

They finally squeezed themselves in, Kasper on Doyle's knee, twitching with excitement and Sam crouched in the back with the cat carrier.

"Pity you didn't have time to bath that dog," said Doyle as they started off, pausing on the way to drop Kasper off at the farm for a few days' holiday with his relatives, and to hear all the gossip.

"You should leave Amos there too," said Bodie. "A few days at the farm ratting would make a cat of him."

"No," said Doyle. "He can't stand that rough lot and I'm not spending weeks combing all the plugs out of his fur afterwards. He'll enjoy the change. I've got his tray and plenty of tins of his favourite yuck."

They arrived via the tradesmen's entrance (the stable yard) as, while the Mercedes looked superb, its occupants did not, both wearing their travelling-with-dusty-animals-and-it-doesn't-matter-what-I-do-in-this clothes. Doyle, with his hair on end and a harried expression, unloaded a yowling Amos, while Bodie hauled out the sack of cat litter. It started to rain heavily.

Bodie stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled like a steam engine. The kitchen door flew open and Toby, Miranda and a heap of young people tumbled out. They all began fighting over who was going to carry Amos. Doyle hung firmly on to the cat carrier as Bodie restored order and shared out the luggage. Miranda displayed her new talent of blowing large pink gum bubbles; it was unappreciated.

"Charming," said Bodie. "Let's get in before we all get soaked."

"Mother says to take you quietly up the backstairs," said Toby.

"Quietly?" said Doyle as they clattered up the stairs. "You know, I feel like someone out of a Wodehouse novel. Hell's teeth, it's cold up here."

"We don't use this wing much," said Toby. "I expect it just needs airing."

"Airing!" said Doyle. "More like about fifty miles of draught excluder. There's a gale blowing round my feet."

"This is your room, Mr Doyle," said Toby. "Uncle William - oops! - Mr Bodie, is at the end of the corridor. And this is the bathroom."

Doyle peered into an apartment of vintage Victorian gloom. "God," he said reverently. "It does have hot water, I suppose?"

"Oh yes," said Toby. "Pa has had the oil-fired cracking away all week. If this doesn't come off we are all bound for Carey Street again, he says."

Doyle looked round his room. Redecorated by someone in the early eighteen-nineties with indifferent taste, he decided. He opened the cat carrier. Amos sprang out, shivered, leapt on the bed and immediately curled up tightly, wrapping his tail round like a muffler and then burying his nose in it.

Doyle wrapped the jacket he had taken off round him. "Don't worry, pet," he said. "If it gets too awful I'll get a crick in my bad leg and we'll be off home. Now, let's see where I can settle your things."

He peered into the bedroom cupboard, which was large enough to conceal a body. Two bodies, he decided. Think I'll give my villain this room. He could hear Bodie talking and laughing with the housekeeper down the corridor. Drat him. Well, once more into the breach and all that stuff.

Doyle combed his hair, looked in the mirror, combed it again and rechecked his appearance. Due to the excessively cold atmosphere in his room, he'd changed in a considerable hurry (in case icicles formed on his person) and was, as usual, dissatisfied with his appearance. But he couldn't stand the cold for another moment, his teeth were starting to chatter. He made his way to the large drawing-room, which to his relief was well-heated and had also, he noted, been redecorated. He settled against a wall heater to thaw out.

"Ah, there you are." Agnes swept down on him. "I'm so glad you could make it, Mr Doyle. Everyone is looking forward to meeting you."

A sentiment that turned Doyle's blood cold.

"Would you keep an eye on Will?" she added sotto voce. "He's apt to be unreliable after his third brandy and he's already passed that."

Doyle smiled sweetly. "As I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Will, he is your problem, Lady Bicester," he remarked. "Oh, cocktails. How nice."

Miranda, well-scrubbed and holding a tray of startling coloured liquids, shook her head vigorously at him. "Not the green ones," she said. "They are foul. Try the pale pink one, that isn't bad. Toby and I have tried them all."

Doyle had to agree it was different, whatever was in it.

"'Lo, Ray," said Lord Bicester, who was not entering into the spirit of the thing at all. "Rum do, isn't it? She got the idea from that mad cousin of hers in Wicklow. Threw his place open and made a packet, they say. Can't think how. Dreadful place, ever been there? When we were there this rat died under the dining-room floor and - "

"Jack!" said his wife. "Come and talk to your guests, please."

Doyle restrained a giggle and helped himself from the buffet provided. Bodie appeared beside him, glass in one hand, plate in the other. While Bodie had a definite gleam in his eye (Doyle was reminded of the well-known saying 'When Irish eyes are smiling, get out of range') he wasn't yet at the pick-a-fight-with-anyone stage.

"You're doing fine," said Bodie. "I nearly went off myself when Jack started on Cousin Gerard's place. Jack spent his honeymoon there. Always says it was the worst week of his life. His horse went lame on the second day, then he fractured his collar-bone and it rained all the time... with him laid up and not a thing to do."

"Sad," said Doyle. "Busy impressing everyone with your title, are you? I notice Jack's had this room done out. No wonder he pays you peanuts. And slow down, will you? There's no need to empty the cellar tonight."

Bodie opened his mouth to reply in kind, then desisted as Agnes bore down on them.

"Mr Doyle," she said, glaring at her brother, "I think you'd like to meet some of our guests before we go in for dinner. Will, if you say anything I'll cripple you, God help me."

Doyle toddled after her, restraining his mirth at Bodie's expression, and met some of the guests. They were a pleasant bunch, he decided, and not keen on discussing his books, thank God. Several seemed more garden-minded, so he chatted happily on that. He was just wondering if something had happened in the kitchen when dinner was announced.

No doubt about it, thought Doyle later, folding his napkin happily, the new cook was a treasure. Could make this weekend worthwhile. Agnes was busy describing the delights in store for her guests: the Hunt tomorrow; then a quiet day, followed by a trip to Marple Hall where Lord Radstock, who was by chance married to her elder daughter Hermione, would be delighted to show them his steam engines and unrivalled collection of stuffed heads. As Bodie had often remarked that Fred Radstock's ought to be up there with them, Doyle had an opportunity for a quiet chuckle here.

They then retired to the library for coffee and entertainment which, as everyone was happily comatose after the meal, went well, apart from Agnes having at times hurriedly to clean up some droll but unsuitable stories attempted by her husband. It was gone midnight when they finally strolled bedward.

"Your brother-in-law can certainly tell a boring story," said Doyle. "It wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't keep stopping to explain anything we might not have understood. Mind, his dirty ones weren't much better. I'd heard 'em all before anyway - from you. Visitors seem a decent bunch. Mrs Bledstow is president of the Camellia Club back in her home state. I'm going to arrange something for the non-hunting folk tomorrow. I don't see why they should be bored out of their minds while you're - " he paused " - I see you managed to get on the Hunt - galloping over hill and dale. I asked Ag. She said, Do what you like. I need to get the rooms tidied up."

Bodie grinned. "Fred came down with sciatica, and as I have horse and gear to hand... Well, providential, as Jack said. Sure you don't fancy staying in my room? Could be a lot warmer."

"No," said Doyle. "You got me into this, you can do without till New Year."

"Very well," said Bodie. He turned into his room and saw with satisfaction that the fire was burning brightly and Sam was stretched out on the rug.

Bodie popped his kettle on - being used to life in cold, damp English and Irish country houses he always came prepared - to make a nightcap before settling into bed with his book. Some time later he noticed his door was opening slowly; a strange chattering noise accompanied it. Doyle appeared, scowling. He was wrapped in a blanket and clutching his clothes to him. He looked frozen, apart from his chattering teeth, and gave the appearance of some starving Victorian street-Arab, the effect heightened by the white Persian cat draped over one shoulder, mewing piteously, even though he was wearing a thick, custom-made fur coat. At the sight of the fire, Amos leapt down and settled on the rug next to Sam.

"I wasn't expecting you till New Year," said Bodie.

"You have a fire," said Doyle indignantly. "Did you know there isn't one bloody power point on this landing? I've been up and down the corridor trying to find a room with one that wasn't colder than a morgue. Had to wait till they were all in bed. People would think I was crackers, creeping about peering into rooms. She put us up here deliberately! Go on, move your carcass over." He clambered into bed. "Thank goodness," he said, plunging his feet down. They encountered the hot brick wrapped in flannel and he hurriedly stifled his shriek of agony. "What the hell have you got in there?" asked Doyle.

"My hot brick," said Bodie proudly. "A pressie from Cook. All the kids have one too. Great, aren't they?"

Doyle was wondering if his foot was permanently charred, but didn't feel like pulling it out in the cold to take a look.

"Staying then, are you?" asked Bodie hopefully as his companion burrowed deeper into the bed.

"Forget it!" said Doyle. "I'm not doing anything with that brick in the bed, it could cause a nasty injury."

"I just hoped," said Bodie, reaching for his book again and a bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut.

"You're not reading now," said Doyle. "I need to get some sleep. No wonder you're putting on weight, stuffing yourself in bed. Come on, let's have some."

Bodie sighed, blew out his candle and passed over some chocolate. It wasn't his fault some of the silver paper was still adhering to the bar, causing Doyle's teeth considerable discomfort till it was removed. Then Bodie's cold hand impinged on a warm bit of his partner, causing another choked-off yelp.

"Shut up," said Bodie. "We'll have 'em all in here to see if I'm molesting you."

"You can stop doing it right now," said Doyle.

 

"Surprising how these bricks hold the heat," said Doyle, early the next morning. "Well, say something instead of lying there looking smug and sloppy." He poked Bodie hard.

Bodie just went on looking very contented, then sighed and got up to make some tea.

"Fire kept in well, too," said Bodie. "I'll bring up more wood and stuff for tonight. Get some sliced bread too, then we can make toast."

Doyle settled back on the pillows. "Midnight toast," he said. "Has a cosy ring, doesn't it? Bit like us, all passion spent, reduced to making toast in the midnight hours."

"Here," said Bodie. "Have your tea and stop spouting rubbish."

"We shouldn't be doing this, you know," said Doyle, slurping tea happily. "It's sinful. Last night should cost you a basinful of Hail Marys for starters."

"Stuff the puritan ethic," said Bodie. "We are going to have to shift soon. I'll check the bathroom's clear when you want to nip over."

"It's like being in a damned French farce," said Doyle. "OK. You go first - make sure the water's hot."

 

Doyle, dressed as warmly as possible, was relaxing on the rumpled bed, watching Bodie get into his hunting apparel. Quite a performance, he now realised.

"You're going to have to stop stuffing chocs if you want to keep getting into those breeches," he remarked. "Ah, a braces man, I see. How old-fashioned."

"You try jumping gates in a tight waistband," said Bodie, stamping his foot home in his well-polished riding-boot. "Now, where's that back stud? I swear the damn thing walks. Got it."

After a few tries he looked at Doyle. "Ray, could you fasten this for me? I can't get my arm that high yet, it's still stiff."

"I knew it!" said Doyle. "You put that shoulder out again, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you would only have gone on about it."

"I do not go on about things," said Doyle. "Well, maybe I do. I'm sick of you coming back from a day's sport looking like a piece of human wreckage. Could kill you sometimes. Here, I'll fix it. Now, mind my delicate feet in those damned boots." He leapt up onto the fireside stool to avoid the boots and fixed the awkward stud, giving Bodie's stock a flick as he did so.

"There you are now, all done up like a dog's dinner." Doyle blew carefully across the top of Bodie's cropped hair. "Hey, you're going bald," he announced in pleased tones.

"I am not," said Bodie. "Stop mucking about and get down."

Doyle, his arms still round Bodie's neck, began to whisper affectionately into a reddening ear.

"You know something," he said, "I like this room. Very cosy. Must bring some chestnuts up tonight. Have an early night. You'll be tired after the hunt - probably need some embrocation rubbing in or something. Get some books from the library, if there are any which aren't on how to kill, cook or maim defenceless creatures."

"Try the top shelf," said Bodie. "They keep the exciting stuff up there out of the way of the children."

"I must have a look," said Doyle. "Could get some ideas on revitalising my love life. Come on, turn round. Um, you've gone all pink. Now, before you go...

 

"Nice," he said a little later. "Just what I had in mind. Haven't crushed your ruffles, have I?"

The door burst open. "Will, I want a word with you." It was Colonel Charles Bodie. He stood there with his mouth open. "Thought you'd be alone," he said stiffly.

"Don't you ever bloody knock?" said Bodie. "I'm not, so clear off."

The colonel removed himself.

"Fool," said Bodie. "I could have had the Dagenham Girl Pipers in here."

"He wouldn't have minded that," said Doyle. "What's that creep doing here anyway?"

"No idea," said Bodie. "I heard he was in Germany with his unit. I'm going to have a word with Ag about this." He stalked out.

"Oh dear," said Doyle. He picked up Amos, who was staring saucer-eyed after Bodie, not used to hearing him yell like that and mean it. "It's all right, Puss. He's not mad at us. Let that be a warning to you. Never get mixed up with an Irishman. They've very uncertain tempers. And there's going to be two of 'em at each other's throats today. Now, I'll see to your breakfast."

When Doyle went down he found a self-service breakfast had been laid out in the dining- room: great platefuls of kedgeree; sausages; bacon; slices of ham, and bowls of boiled eggs. Several young girls from the village and the young Fanshaws were passing out plates and seeing that the less boisterous and/or aggressive were getting sufficient to eat. The room was filled with the deafening bray of hunting types uttering yelps of delight as they spotted old mates between packing down enormous breakfasts.

The Bodie brothers were at opposite ends of the room, obviously on Agnes's instructions. Doyle glared at Charles - even the knowledge he was anti-blood sports had done nothing to warm a chilly relationship and Doyle considered Winifred, Charles's wife, to be the most poisonous woman he'd ever met. 

He looked round for his group. They were standing together, looking bemused at the throng. He hurried over and made sure they were getting enough to eat, and answered questions on the Hunt, doing his best to be fair through gritted teeth. Jack had come in and was talking to Bodie, who now resembled a large depression from Ireland.

Doyle moved over to find them at loggerheads over Miranda riding side-saddle at the Hunt, Bodie finally prevailing after a description of the heavy going. Jack was a fond parent, but believed that everyone should take a few falls in their time. His last one meant he was not riding at the moment. Bodie, having won his point, called his dog to heel and went out to supervise the hounds' arrival. Doyle sped upstairs to make sure Amos was shut securely in their room and present him with a slice of ham, a present from a lady admirer who had met Doyle and his cat having a walkabout in the grounds.

When he returned the Hunt was mounting up after quaffing the Stirrup Cup. Sam was now in the kitchen, making overtures to the cook. Doyle hurried out to give Piper a handful of sugar lumps he'd acquired and have a quick word with Bodie, who was now in excellent spirits. Piper was delighted with his sugar lumps, crunching noisily.

"I hope you have a good run," said Doyle, "seeing it's a drag."

"Spoken like a true friend," said Bodie, grinning down at him. "And what the hell do you think you're doing?" he roared, walking his horse over to Toby, who had apparently been demonstrating to a young lady his prowess at standing on his head in the saddle.

Bodie had a short conversation with him, which left the lad quite unsubdued. Miranda, now mounted astride, yelled "Hello" at Doyle, who waved back and then retreated to the house where some old ladies were cooing over the hounds.

"Oh, aren't they just sweet, Mr Doyle?"

"Yes," he said. "But you should see the list of slaughtered poultry the Hunt has to pay for every quarter. Menace to anything that moves, that lot. We'll just see them off, then we can go out on our trip."

He paused to inform Agnes, who was just organising a chain-gang to brush, sweep and tidy all the rooms, that their room was off limits so Amos would not be disturbed, and departed with his party in two cars.

The outing, he was pleased to recall later, was very successful. The village, mercifully not under a pall of snow, had its photo taken from all angles. The Brewers and its customers rose to the occasion with a decent light lunch, Doyle having been on to them earlier. They stopped at Highgreen Farm to see a modern dairy farm in operation, the tour conducted with great aplomb by Ashley and ending in the farm parlour for hot tea and cake. They also sampled Jess's new venture, home-made ice-cream, which even Doyle voted a great success. Almost everyone wanted to take a cheese home, which were provided. The tour of the village church was conducted by the vicar without mentioning the fabric, but as souvenirs were bought, that was not necessary.

Then the group were invited to the vicarage for a drink or hot beverage. On the way back Doyle pointed out his home proudly, and they immediately insisted on stopping to view his garden - not that there was much to see, but what there was, was admired. He was asked was he in the Yellow Book? Shades of Oscar, thought Doyle, till he remembered the book put out by the National Gardens Scheme. He said modestly that he hoped to throw open his little plot when the village did theirs in early summer. And why not? he said to himself. Then he found a tour of the farmhouse was being requested. Thanks to Jess and the Aga (which was admired) it was warm inside, although he was startled to see one lady studying a framed photo of the Irish Showjumping team carefully.

"Mr Doyle, isn't that - ?"

"Oh yes," he said. "I was travelling with the team then. Liaison, that sort of thing. We know each other quite well."

"I could tell," she said happily. "He looks well on a horse, doesn't he?"

"Yes," said Doyle shortly. Several other replies had occurred to him of a more acid nature, but they would not have been fitting in the circumstances.

On their drive home, taking a detour to see a local beauty spot, they saw the Hunt in the far distance and drew up to watch.

"They are never going to jump that wall," said an awed voice.

Doyle very nearly replied that he was afraid they were and averted his eyes. He'd long ago realised that for his own peace of mind it was better not to watch Bodie's hell-for-leather galloping on the hunting field. From the lack of gasps, he presumed no-one had actually fallen so they proceeded on their way.

After a very good afternoon, it had even had some sunshine, they arrived back to find all the large bathrooms crammed with hunt persons scrubbing off acres of mud. The dry-cleaning bills would be excessive, Doyle gathered.

Apparently everything had gone well, apart from Toby falling foul of his Uncle William again and narrowly missing being sent home. The general opinion was that he was lucky to be back in one piece. Bodie, Doyle gathered, was soaking in a bath somewhere.

Doyle went to the kitchen to check on his cat, who was now supplementing his Whiskas with treats from the kitchen. Sam, fast losing his rakish outline, was snoring in his basket.

Doyle retired to their room, picked his way through discarded and very muddy boots, jacket and breeches and brewed himself a cup of tea before settling in the large wing-chair by the fire. They seemed to have acquired a travelling rug from somewhere, which he tucked round himself. Curling his feet up, he basked in the warmth. He had never felt less like moving anywhere.

Bodie entered, his hair on end and very pink-faced.

Doyle sniffed. "God, that's sexy - carbolic, isn't it? You need to shave, too."

"I know," growled Bodie. "Think I'll grow a beard."

"You won't," said Doyle. "You look awful in a beard. Sort of a short King Kong. Did you have a good day?"

"Apart from nearly taking a strap to young Toby, and being cursed with a couple of kickers whose riders didn't know what to do with them, yes," said Bodie. "How did seeing Larton in midwinter go?"

"Pretty good. They all want to come back and see it in the summer now. I was thinking of throwing our place open for the National Gardens Scheme. Just a few days in the summer, when the rest of the village does it. It would work out quite well, you know. First they do the vicarage with its lily ponds, then Colonel Heaton's with his old roses and bees, then our place. My water garden will be developing by then. They can finish at that home with the green shutters where you flirt with the lady."

"Mrs Armitage and I are just good friends," said Bodie primly.

"As she's pushing eighty-six I'm inclined to believe you there. And now you're home with lots of free time, I was thinking... You can design us some cards to sell for the church and/or garden fund."

"Only if St Elfleda's gets a cut," said Bodie firmly, "or forget it."

"I do wish you were a Methodist or something," said Doyle. "All right then."

Bodie, who had started to dress for dinner, glanced at Doyle, who was still curled up in the chair and was now busy making notes.

"You've not changed," said Bodie. "Better get a move on. Dinner's in half an hour."

"'S all right," said Doyle, "just tell 'em my leg's acting up, there's a good lad. I picked up lots of local colour for my whodunit and had some more ideas. I had tea at Jess's and lunch at the Brewers so I'm not hungry."

"There's not a thing wrong with your leg. Look, Ray, we are guests and agreed to help out."

There was snort of derision from Doyle.

"All right then," said Bodie. "Unwilling guests. But we do have to go down and do our bit as promised."

"Gawd, you're awfully Brit. at times," said Doyle. "Half expect you to say, Remember Dunkirk."

"Ray," said Bodie, "I'm off downstairs now, and I expect you down in fifteen minutes, dressed and with a bright smile on your face, or bared teeth - I don't really care which - but down, understand?"

"Oh, fuck off," said Doyle.

He found himself eyeball to eyeball with his partner.

"Fifteen minutes," said Bodie, "or I'll come and fetch you." He left.

Doyle looked after him consideringly. While he was tempted to press his luck, Bodie was quite likely to throw him over one shoulder and dump him in the middle of the drawing-room for a joke. He'd go down and do his party piece, but Bodie would regret it.

As he began to dress Amos let out a plaintive miaow. "Feeling lonely, pet? I'll take you down to the kitchen and Cook. You can sit by her fire with Sam."

Bodie, keeping an eye on the staircase, saw with relief that Doyle was descending. He looked magnificent: cool, remote, green eyes flashing, with his cat tucked under his arm. Pity he was going to be hell to live with till he calmed down.

When Doyle returned to the drawing-room, having left Amos curled on Cook's ample lap, he found Bodie talking to Colonel Heaton, a favourite drinking companion. The colonel's good lady's sciatica having struck, she was unable to attend. Doyle, aware that she couldn't stand Agnes, guessed that the sciatica was diplomatic. Agnes was doing her Lady Macbeth 'welcome to fair Dunsinane' act as she announced Mr and Mrs Crispin Gould. Doyle noticed Jack, Colonel Charles Bodie and his lady twitch, and distinctly heard Bodie say something in Irish which sounded rude before he poured himself a large whiskey. As theirs was a strong mutual dislike it could be an interesting evening, thought Doyle. Bodie and Polly had been an item at one time, too - Mrs Crispin Gould was a local farmer's daughter.

All we need now is bloody Amy, Doyle thought.

"Ah, Mr Doyle," said Agnes. "I think you know Lord and Lady Merton. I'm putting them at your table. I know you'll find lots to talk about."

Doyle considered this extremely unlikely. He couldn't stand Amy, and her husband had no conversation.

Agnes looked down the room to where her brothers were in close proximity. "I must go and see to - er - things," she said.

Doyle watched her have a brisk word with Bodie. He replied with the sort of expression on his face which invites any lady of spirit to slap it, hard. Agnes, with great strength of will, refrained. Doyle watched, entranced, and pulled out his notebook. Wouldn't miss this, he thought, it's better than the telly.

"Evening, Doyle," said Colonel Heaton. "I would have liked to go out this morning but the damned joints have stiffened up again. Had a good run, did you?"

Doyle had long ago given up trying to explain to the colonel that he didn't share Bodie's mania for hunting, so he just grunted an assent and inquired about the colonel's arthritis. From that, they moved on to his knee, the Colonel's hip replacement, and what did he think of that damned suggestive play the BBC had on last week?

Doyle said all it had suggested to him was the need to stock up on library books for the winter season if that was the best on offer. It had gripped Bodie so much he'd fallen asleep in the first ten minutes, only surfacing towards the end and then to make disparaging remarks about the heroine's horse's hocks.

"I'd better go and have a word with young Gould," said Colonel Heaton, "before that woman calls us in for dinner. I only came to oblige Bicester. I see Colonel Bodie's here. Damned prig. Most disliked man in the regiment, John says."

 

Have to admit one thing, Doyle thought over his meal, I was right. The new cook is fantastic. He glanced over at Bodie, then looked away again. He appeared to be demonstrating to Polly Gould his horse leaping over every obstacle on the Hunt, with aid of a stalk of celery balanced on the condiment set. Never nice to watch the object of your affections being a bloody idiot, thought Doyle. On his right, Amy was boring on about her undistinguished offspring. Lord Merton, on the other hand, was discussing badgers and their protection with enthusiasm. Doyle joined in and promised his support.

"Poor buggers need all the help they can get," he remarked.

Amy said she was surprised he was still living in the village. Surely he found it terribly tame after the fleshpots of London? She made it sound as though his life in London had been one long round of dissipation, which was sadly untrue. Doyle replied that home was where the heart was, threw in some sentiments about the beauties of nature and the simple life à la Patience Strong and hoped it made her feel ill.

On taking another look at Bodie, he saw that he and Charles were now far too close together. Only the restraining influence of Colonel Heaton appeared to be stopping gauntlets from being flung down with some force.

Agnes got up and said she was sure they'd all like to move into the drawing-room for coffee. There would be bridge later, or if the gentleman preferred it, a few games of billiards.

Doyle groaned. He loathed bridge and knew the temperature in the billiard room was on a par with that of the North Pole. What he really wanted to do was find a long sofa in a warm room to stretch out on. His leg really was aching now. He remembered thankfully that there was one in the library, which was kept warm for the books. He had just settled himself (the fire was warm indeed) when Jack appeared.

"The old girl's not in here, then?" he said, looking about hopefully.

To Doyle's annoyance he looked like settling too.

"Good," Jack went on. "Expect her to start yelling Hi de Hi at any moment. Not needed. They're a nice enough crowd. Wish she'd do something about Will. He and Charles are just about squaring up out there. Leave 'em to it, I say. Both bloody Irishmen past seeing sense."

Doyle gathered the brothers were now exchanging the sort of remarks common to those who have had too much to drink and too many old grudges to remember. He decided he'd better go and referee if nothing else and made his way to the dining-room. He entered just in time to hear Charles make an unpardonable remark about Ashley's parentage and be immediately floored.

Charles leapt up, nose streaming, and counter-attacked.

Doyle made a grab at Bodie, was flung aside and stumbled against a chair which fell over, taking him with it. Doyle was just getting himself together and waiting for his leg to calm down when there was a great splashing noise and some very colourful language. Agnes had emptied the wine cooler over her battling brothers. As she said later, there was nothing like several pints of icy water and half-melted ice cubes down your back to dampen anyone's martial spirit. As the two gasped for breath, she grabbed two sets of cropped hair and expressed her opinion of their behaviour.

Doyle, now standing carefully, was considering going over and landing one on Bodie himself when Miranda appeared.

"Oh Ray," she wailed. "Please come. Amos is being dreadfully sick."

Doyle swore and limped after her, to find poor Amos uttering distressed mews in the kitchen.

"The poor love," said Cook. "They've been feeding him chocolate marshmallows. Upset his poor little stomach."

"You stupid girl!" said Doyle to Miranda.

She immediately burst into tears. "He won't die, will he?" she wailed.

"No, he won't," said Doyle. "All the same, Persians love sweet things and haven't the digestion for it. Very neurotic about their health, too. All right, pet. I'll take you home. Miranda, stop howling. I know you didn't mean any harm. Tell your Dad I'll be back in the morning."

Doyle went to his room, Amos under his arm, plus "a piece of nice cake" from the cook, "for the poor little love". He was sorely tempted to have it himself.

There was a knock on the door as he was packing.

"If that's you, Bodie, sod off," said Doyle.

"No, it's me," said Lord Bicester.

Doyle let him in.

"Had enough, have you?" said Jack, watching him pack. "Will's having his head bathed by Amy."

"Yes," said Doyle. "I need some peace and quiet and a good night's sleep. I hope it didn't alarm your guests?"

"Oh, no," said Jack. "I just convinced them that all they'd heard about English country house parties was true. You missed Polly Gould having words with Amy, and Winifred wanting Will arrested for assault and battery. Charles told her not to be a damned fool and did she want their family affairs broadcast all over Gloucestershire?"

"And as far as Bristol on a clear day," said Doyle vaguely. "I'll be back tomorrow to see the guests on their last day - and collect Bodie. I'd chain him down somewhere if I was you."

"Agnes wants to feed him to the hounds in small pieces," said Jack. "She's got a cold compress slapped on the colonel's nose."

"I'm all for feeding him, too," said Doyle. "Tell the bastard not to come home till he's stone-cold sober. I'll take Sam with me now."

"Decent of you to help out," said Jack. "I'll see Will stays put."

"It was, but I've plenty of nice local colour for my book. I'd better say goodnight to my group."

He found them having a peaceful chat over their coffee in the drawing-room. Doyle said yes, he was glad they enjoyed their day and he would see them in the morning. He just had to nip off home now and sort some things out. They seemed to be oblivious to the drama which had taken place in the dining-room, probably because they'd made a beeline for the drawing-room early on.

Doyle then collected Amos and Sam, the latter rather regretful about being dragged from the fleshpots, and set off home. Amos, after a mild burst of complaint, retired to his basket, while Sam stretched on the rug, showing the whites of his eyes. Doyle looked through the Radio Times and decided on a hot drink and 'Book at Bedtime'. He was just thinking of retiring there himself when the phone rang; he almost didn't answer it.

"Ray, it's Jack. I think Will is on his way home. I told him you'd left and he was to stay put. Soon as I turned my back he was off out to the stables where he saddled up Piper. Don't know what the hell he thought he was doing - he's still over the limit, I'd say. I dashed out in time to see him taking the park wall. He isn't even wearing a hat, damned fool."

"Oh hell," said Doyle. "Thanks, Jack, I'll be in touch."

Doyle looked out. At least there was a good moon. Hope the fool isn't coming along the road, too many drunken drivers about - and Piper won't even have a tail-light. If he's cutting across country he'll be jumping God knows what in the dark. Probably safer on the M1. I'd better ring Jess in case he lands up there.

Jess took the news calmly, apart from remarking, "How like William," and would they like to come over and see the New Year in at her place? Just a few friends, none of William's family would be there.

Doyle considered this a definite point in favour and said Yes, they would be there if Bodie didn't break his neck on the way home.

It was almost three hours later - it felt more like ten - when he heard a horse clatter into the yard. Doyle went out. Bodie, looking very much the worse for wear, slid off his horse and sat down in the yard.

"Never again," he said, holding his head.

"Get inside," said Doyle, "while I attend to this poor horse."

He took the reins from Bodie and led Piper to his stall. He seemed none the worse for his late outing and submitted to being rubbed down, having his rug put on and a tasty snack for his supper, including a handful of horse-nuts. He gave Doyle a friendly shove with his nose, snickering away.

"You're a good lad," said Doyle. "He doesn't deserve you - or me, come to that. I'll bring you another drink when you've cooled down more."

When he returned to the kitchen Bodie was sitting on the sofa. Not only did he have some impressive facial bruising and a cut head, but he appeared to have been rolling about in a field somewhere.

"Couldn't you at least get cleaned up?" said Doyle.

Bodie looked at him. "How the hell did I get here?" he said. "Arm's funny. I need a drink."

"The last thing you need is a drink," said Doyle. "And stop rubbing your head with that hand, it's filthy."

Bodie looked at it vaguely. "Better wash," he said, got up and staggered.

"Down, boy. Better let me do it. Apart from everything else you're bleeding all over our sofa." He went and got hot water and TCP. "Now sit still and let me clean you up," Doyle commanded.

"Ray?" Bodie looked at him anxiously. "Are you mad at me?"

"No more than usual," said Doyle, dabbing away. "This is going to need stitching - it looks worse now I've cleaned it. Just like you. You're going to ruin Casualty's Christmas."

Doyle moved to the phone and rang the local hospital. He was waiting for them to answer, watching Bodie. Look at you, he thought, sitting there pissed half out of your brain. Nothing but a damned nuisance. One day I know you're going to break your bloody neck and my heart jumping one wall too many. 

"I'm going to kill you when you're sober," he said.

Bodie tried to grin and went even paler. "Giddy," he said, and rolled onto the floor unconscious.

Mercifully the ambulance men made good time and Casualty had been having a fairly quiet night.

"Phew!" said the doctor on duty. "Hope it's not concussion. How much has he had to drink? He smells like a distillery."

"Too damned much," said Doyle. "I didn't try and get his jacket off - I think his arm is broken."

On being dismissed, Doyle settled in the waiting-room with a cup of coffee, which was vile, and his thoughts which were not much better. The doctor finally emerged.

"No real harm done," he said. "Well, his collar-bone has fractured - must have had a fall. Sprained wrist, and his head needed stitching. Seemed to have more alcohol than blood coursing through his veins so we didn't risk an anaesthetic. Mind, he's going to feel really awful over the next twenty-four hours. He isn't likely to come round before morning."

Doyle, after further discussion and reassurance that Bodie, though battered, wasn't likely to expire suddenly, set off home. 

 

Next morning he rang to find the patient had not spent a peaceful night and was suffering the torments of the damned with his hangover. Doyle said, "Good", and that he'd collect Bodie late that afternoon.

On returning to Campden Park he found his group all a-twitter at the prospect of another country house visit. He had tea and buns with them and said his farewells, remembering to add that Bodie deeply regretted he couldn't be with them, but a family commitment...

"You know, I heard a horse galloping in the night," said one old lady. "Just like the story Mr Bodie told of the Phantom Fanshaw horseman."

Doyle nearly choked on his coffee, knowing too well whose hoofbeats they must have been. "Mr Bodie can tell a good story," he said acidly.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I could just see him with his cloak and sword."

If she knew the bastard was in hospital - suffering, I hope - she'd probably want to go and wrap him in thermogene, thought Doyle savagely.

When he returned to the drawing-room, Colonel Bodie was there, looking about, his normally saturnine expression that he had in common with his brother heightened by a swollen nose and a black eye, which Doyle was delighted to see.

"Mr Doyle," he said frigidly. "You don't happen to know where William is, do you?"

"No idea," said Doyle. "Unless he's taken a plane to Sidi Bel Abbes to join the Foreign Legion. Very down, was William. Talked about going away to forget."

"They are not there any more," said Charles. "They are now based in Corsica."

"Is that so? Well, Bodie is in for a surprise when he lands, isn't he?"

"I do wish," said Charles testily, "you'd stop calling my brother 'Bodie'. Makes him sound like a Golden Labrador."

Doyle smiled sweetly across the table. "Charles, mind your own damned business," he said.

"Now see here - " Charles began, an unbecoming flush to his face.

Agnes entered, bearing a toast-rack as if it were a severed head: one she'd removed personally.

"Good morning, Ray," she said. "Have some more toast. Miranda will be through with the marmalade shortly. Still here, Charles? Surely you should be helping poor Winifred with the packing?" She turned to Doyle. "How is the invalid? Tell him to come over when he's fit and I'll black his other eye. Charles, shove off," she added.

Charles left, muttering.

Agnes took off her dark glasses and helped herself to a large mug of coffee. "Well, how is the bastard?"

"Suffering from a severe hangover, a broken collar-bone, sprained wrist, multiple bruising and a mild concussion," said Doyle. "And you'll have to stand in line to belt him."

"All the guests departed safely," said Agnes. "I thought they were charming. Next time the damned family can stay away. Still, we can get the chimneys plastered and Toby's school fees paid for a year. Thank God I don't have to worry about educating Miranda. Oh good, marmalade."

oOo 

"Yes, the firm are happy with the book so far," said Mr Halliwell bracingly. "However, they do have reservations about chapter fourteen and a few other matters. I have made out a list and possible suggestions to overcome some of the difficulties - those where there could be legal problems. But they feel the story has good continuity, holds the interest well. And few have actually guessed whodunit, and then only in the final pages. I must say, I enjoyed it, both the background and the lack of the usual sexual calisthenics all over the place. My wife complains, though, that you overdid the menace in chapter three. She couldn't bring herself to put the light out for some time. Considering what she normally reads in bed without turning a hair, you're to be complimented."

"Good," said Doyle absently, looking through the suggested list of amendments. "Oh, I forgot. Happy New Year and all that stuff."

"You already wished me one," said Mr Halliwell dryly. "At two-thirty on the morning of the first of January."

"Oh God, you too?" said Doyle. "Bodie said he kept trying to wrest the phone from me. We went to this party at Highgreen Farm, had a great time. No idea what I'd been doing when I woke on the sofa of the farm parlour next morning. Apparently I was higher than a kite, and Bodie had his arm in a sling and couldn't drive. Mind, I was delighted to hear I'd rung Jack and two old Met. colleagues who I never liked very much. Bodie got the phone away from me before I could get through to the Prime Minister."

"I could hear Bodie in the background expressing caution," said Mr Halliwell. "From the thickness of his accent I imagined he was having a worrying time."

"So he said," said Doyle, grinning. "Bodie's on the wagon. He's being a good lad at the moment. Dr Ryan read him a stiff lecture on his liver and wouldn't he rather go out on the hunting field via a broken neck than cirrhosis?"

"And now," said Mr Halliwell, "I'm afraid we must discuss the matter of publicity for the book. It would help if you gave at least one interview, you know."

Doyle shrugged. "Why can't I go on being a man of mystery? A frail, reclusive figure, haunted by the tragic ending of my great love affair. Poor Madeleine, her memory is still green, you know." He gazed sadly into the distance.

"No doubt," said Mr Halliwell. "Well, it does sound rather good, but I'm afraid they'll require a little more fact and less fiction for the blurb on the book jacket."

"I can't see why," said Doyle. "It's a lot more interesting than the truth - that I'm a short, bad-tempered ex-cop, with a leg that gives me gyp, living in a non-picturesque village in deepest Gloucestershire with a horse-mad mick."

"I'm sure we can arrange something tasteful," said Mr Halliwell helpfully. "You know, the man of mystery pose is bound to get someone sniffing round eventually. Much better to give the impression that like most writers you're rather boring and devoted to something rural like growing tomatoes, or the biggest leek for miles."

"I expect you're right," said Doyle gloomily. "Joking aside, I don't want myself or Bodie having to put up with the likes of The Sun. But, please, not tomatoes. I can't stand growing them - no need to anyway. Everyone else in the village does - practically giving them away at the end of the season. Careful who you send, mind. I can just see me trying to sound civilised with a snotty young lady from The Tatler in our parlour and Bodie wanders through in his green wellies, muttering about roundworms and bots. Must have him do that if The Sun ever calls. Bodie's lectures on intestinal worms in horses can clear the bar in the Brewers."

"Er, yes," said Mr Halliwell. "He gave me an excerpt once. He's over his accident, I trust?"

"More or less. He has an idea I nearly had my bag packed to leave at Christmas and he's being very careful. Waste of time, of course. I'd only have had to come back. I'd miss him and the damned place too much. Anyway, he's after a good job now. Jack tipped me off about it, but as Bodie hasn't told me himself I can't make encouraging noises."

"Give him my regards," said Mr Halliwell. "And I'll let you know about that interview. I think we can leave it until the spring. It's looking bleak out. They say there could be a heavy snowfall in your part of the world."

"They are always saying that. It's positively balmy in Gloucestershire at the moment. All my idiot bulbs are starting to come up. I keep yelling, Back, you fools! Well, I'd better be on my way. I'll get to work on this lot tomorrow. I must speak to your girls. I've brought a cake from Jess for them."

 

"I'm back!" yelled Doyle, dumping his heavy bag with relief in the passage. He sniffed. "That smells good. It's getting really parky out." He entered the kitchen and started to warm his hands by the Aga, then peered into the large stewpan. "Dumplings! Just what I need." He slipped an arm around Bodie, who was stirring carefully, and hugged.

"Had a good day?" asked Bodie. "It's nearly ready."

"Not bad," said Doyle, pulling his boots off. "The firm is pleased with the book. They want some rewriting done, mostly chapter fourteen - you were right about that. Anyway, we'll go through it all after dinner."

"Funny look to the sky tonight," said Doyle as they ate apple pie.

"It's going to snow," said Bodie.

"Oh, not you, too. Every year since I came here they've been forecasting another Ice Age. It hasn't happened yet."

"You'll see," said Bodie.

Later, over several glasses of wine and cider, they looked over chapter fourteen.

"Well," said Doyle, "I agree it needs a good rewrite, but how can Lord Compton be actionable?"

"Because," said Bodie, "he is the spitting image of a certain well-known sporting peer."

"Can't be," said Doyle. "No-one is this lunatic."

"You remember that time they brought me home with a broken ankle?" said Bodie. "After a day out with the -----? Well, he was the MFH."

"Him!" said Doyle. "Oh hell, I must have taken it in without realising it. I never listen properly when you're burbling on about your dreadful friends. I'm going to have to alter the bastard, aren't I? Then I'll check with you. I had a letter from Mrs Briscoe this morning - one of the party that came to see Larton. She sent me some seeds. She loved our Aga, seemed deeply attached to it."

"I know how she feels," said Bodie, warming a socked foot. "Ray, about Christmas. I made a right berk of myself, didn't I? Need to apolo - "

"Hey!" said Doyle. He patted a corduroyed knee. "You did, now forget about it. What with Charles, the job going wrong on you, your bloody relatives, and me in a snit... Besides, we were due for a really good row."

"I wish I could feel that hand," said Bodie sadly. "My leg's numb with the cold. Jack decided he couldn't afford Tim Porter any longer. Very ornamental and a good lad at the bar, but not what you could call a hard worker. I said I wanted to sit in when he does the interviews for the job so we don't get another lemon. Tim wasn't bothered. His wife's family have money and he didn't like the village."

"'Bout time the penny dropped," said Doyle. "Have you heard anything about the job you applied for?"

"I wondered how long it would be before you cracked on you knew," said Bodie. "Bad as a ferret, you are. I go for a first interview at the end of the month. Cross your fingers for me. It's helping to train the junior team of the Brits. Plenty after the job, too. And I'll still have time to teach at Jack's place."

"Don't need to cross any fingers," said Doyle. "You're a damned good teacher. I've watched you. You've lots more patience than I have. Will you be travelling?"

"Not overseas. Just to the job, and to shows occasionally. Should be home most weekends, and it's seasonal. I'd better go out and rug the lads up, it's getting dark."

When he returned Doyle was busy boiling up the kettle and getting out mugs. "Making hot toddies," he said. "Think my circulation has given up - it's crouched in a corner somewhere, whimpering pathetically. What's it like out?"

"Dropped another two degrees. Starting to freeze. Funny really, Jack and the family flew out to their winter sports holiday this morning. They might as well have stayed here."

Doyle stared at him. "They did what? No, don't tell me again. So much for the poverty-stricken upper classes. Told you to take a non-paid holiday, did they?"

"More or less. Still, it gives me a chance to catch up on things here. There's plenty to do round the stable."

oOo

Next morning found Doyle, well wrapped up, settled in his study writing busily. He was determined to break the back of chapter fourteen if he stayed there all day.

Bodie, after getting in the provisions and doing odd jobs in the stables, brought him in a stack of sandwiches and a bowl of soup for lunch and took the typed pages away to check. As he had been in on the birth of the story, Doyle was confident Bodie would notice anything that seemed wrong.

Finally, around five, Doyle decided a decent break was in order and went into the kitchen. Snow flurries were blowing across the window. Peering out through the glass, he could just make out the stable lantern lit and hanging by Piper's door. The phone went and he answered it.

"Colonel Heaton. Bodie? He's across the yard, I think. Hang on, I'll get him." Doyle opened the yard door and found six inches of snow confronting him and plenty more coming down.

"Bodie!" he yelled, deciding against crossing the yard himself. Amos, beside him, put out a tentative paw and patted the white stuff, spat, shook his paw and retreated hurriedly.

Bodie made his way across the yard, his mittened hands red with cold. Doyle put on the kettle while listening to the conversation.

"Right," said Bodie. "I'll be off in about fifteen minutes. Meet you by the Brewers."

"And where are you off to in fifteen minutes?" asked Doyle. "You're never going out in this?"

"Have to," said Bodie. "Damn, my hands are cold." He was trying to construct a sandwich.

"Here." Doyle thrust a hot drink into his hand and took over the bread knife. "Cheese and pickle do you?" he inquired. "What's up then?"

"The school bus from Gretton is well overdue. It left in good time - could have gone off the road. The driver isn't a local man. There's a lot more snow forecast and the wind's getting up. So we'd better go and find it. Make it two big 'uns, will you, and I'd better have a thermos. I don't know when I'll be back. I'll just finish off in the stable."

By the time Bodie returned, his sandwiches were packed with a thermos and a filled hip- flask.

"Thought that might come in useful," said Doyle.

"Good thinking. Stay here. You'll get a call if you're needed. This could just blow over."

It was five hours before the phone went in the early hours of the morning. It sounded like 'frying tonight' on it.

"Bodie, what's wrong with this thing?" yelled Doyle. "And where are you?"

"Brewers," yelled Bodie. "Phone's going out. We found the bus, kids are all right - just cold and hungry. Driver wasn't too good, he's in the cottage hospital. They went into a ditch. Stay where you are - everywhere's blocked at the moment. I'm having a kip here for what's left of the night."

oOo 

Next morning, or rather, later that morning, Doyle woke to find that the phone was now out and the power off. Thank God for the Aga, he thought, I'll be doing all the cooking on that now. He stood a pan on it for hot water for shaving, then cheerfully took it off again - it was a good excuse not to shave - and dug out the frying-pan.

The two horses were pop-eyed with wonder at this strange white world. Doyle, seeing to their needs, was less than impressed. He shivered, thankful that Piper and Flash at least threw out a considerable amount of heat. He had already decided that if Jos got through today at all he was going to be very late. He was just considering what to do next when he heard a bump in the yard. Going out, he found Ashley clambering back up onto his skis.

"I don't think I've got the hang of these yet, Mr Doyle," said Ashley cheerfully. "There isn't enough snow to really go whoosh! They've cleared a track to the end of the lane. Mother's gone down to the Parish Hall to help out feeding people. Did you hear about our bus getting stuck?"

"I did," said Doyle. "Any idea where Bodie is now? He rang from the Brewers in the early hours, the phone's out now."

"Oh, he went off to Fred's on the tractor," said Ashley. "His generator's packed up and the cows need milking. Ours is fine, but he can't move his stock over to our place. I must go. Mother asked me to check in case Mrs Prentice needs anything."

"I'd better get down to the village and see if there's anything I can do," said Doyle.

He left a note for Bodie and made his way, with difficulty, to the lane end where he was hailed by Polly Gould and her Range Rover, crammed with passengers.

"Like a lift?" she called. "I can drop you off at the Brewers."

"That will do fine," said Doyle. "Good thing you had a set of chains."

"Always keep 'em in the boot," said Polly. "Bloody, isn't it?"

Doyle and her passengers agreed. The Brewers had the air of Command HQ, packed with villagers organising food and accommodation for stranded motorists. Those village school children whose homes were now inaccessible had been parcelled out to relatives or family friends - thankfully their parents had been alerted to this before the phones cut out. Dr O'Neil and the local vet were out attending human and animal casualties, while the vicar, Colonel Heaton and Mr Potter were compiling a list of elderly and now housebound villagers who might need assistance.

"Just the man!" said Colonel Heaton, on seeing Doyle. "You used to be a policeman, didn't you?"

Doyle, who was itching to help but knew all too well that his leg wouldn't allow him to dig anyone out of anything, hurried over and was directed to PC Jeffers at the tiny village station-cum-police house, who needed someone to man his police radio when he was out on a call.

Doyle pointed out modestly that as an ex-policeman he was familiar with the equipment and was practically clasped to a blue serge tunic in relief.

"My two lads will take messages for you," said Jeffers, "and Mary will be happy to get you something to eat. I have to get over to Melwood if the damn road isn't too blocked. You shouldn't have any problems with the set, it has its own supply. Any big emergency, try and get me on the short wave. It's been acting up, though."

"So what's new?" said Doyle. "They always did. Sub-standard rubbish they fob us off with."

They had a few moments' grumble together, then PC Jeffers set out on his quest and Doyle made himself known to Gretton Police Station and prayed nothing too exciting would happen.

Quite like old times, this, he thought as he ate the excellent meal served by Mrs Jeffers, his ear still cocked for emergency calls. He had to stop to send Samuel Junior off with a message about yet another stranded motorist who had thought he could get through and had not. He then discussed with Gretton idiots who, when told to stay put, started driving merrily round the countryside, putting everyone to trouble and inconvenience, and heard from them with distaste that even more white stuff was on the way. They were just discussing getting cattle feed through when PC Jeffers returned.

"I think that's everyone accounted for now," he said. "I finally managed to persuade old Mother Braithwaite to leave her cottage and come into the village till this is over. She wanted to stay put but it's just too damned cold in her place. She'll be fine with the Perkins till it's fit for her to go back. Mrs Mossop had her baby, it's a girl. They are delighted with it. She never fancied going to that hospital in Gretton. They are going to call her Eira. Means 'snow' in Welsh, apparently."

"I hope she changes her mind," said Doyle. "It's got a funny sound, Eira Mossop. There's a list of messages for you, mostly the usual twaddle from headquarters. Never change, do they? Still knee-deep in paperwork."

PC Jeffers agreed fervently and applied himself to his dinner. A horn hooted outside.

"That's Polly for you. They should have a meal laid on for you at the Brewers by the time you get there. They were arranging it when I left," said the police constable. "Thanks, Mr Doyle. I'll let you know if you're needed again."

"Any time," said Doyle as he hurried out. The four-wheeler was still going strong.

"At times like this," said Doyle as they waited for a tractor to make up its mind, "I could almost swop my Merc for one of these."

"She's not bad," said Polly. "Does everything I ask of her, or has up to now. This is my last run to the Brewers for today."

"Never like this in London," said Doyle. "All we ever got was four inches of grey slush and then they acted as though the seven plagues of Egypt had landed."

"Do you miss London?" asked Polly. "I can't stand it myself. Of course, poor Cris has to be there all week."

"Not at all," said Doyle. "Mind, sometimes I swear I can feel moss growing on me. Ah, the Brewers."

The village machinery for crisis was now meshing beautifully, Doyle realised as he was handed a steaming plate of food almost on entering. Then Mr Potter passed him a large whisky.

"On the parish council," he said.

Doyle raised his glass in salute. "You've got everything well organised," he said, looking about.

"Well, there's only us to do it out here, isn't there?" said Mr Potter. "And we like to look after ourselves."

"I went over and saw to the horses, Mr Doyle," said Jos.

Doyle stared at him. "How the hell did you get here?" he asked, knowing Jos lived on a distant hill farm.

"Oh, I borrowed my brother's sledge. Thought I'd see if I could get down that way. Never again, Mr Doyle. Thought I was on the Cresta Run. Didn't know how to brake the damn thing. I've left it in your yard. Young Ashley and some of the lads were looking at it. I said they could borrow it. I'm staying at my Auntie Molly's now. I'll never get back up to the farm till it thaws."

"Thanks, Jos," said Doyle. "Look, if you need a meal, put it on the tab here or come and eat with us. I'm off to the village hall."

Apparently Bodie had last been seen carrying several camp-beds in that direction, according to the most recent information. When Doyle arrived Jess was organising what appeared to be a dormitory and pointed at a side room. He found Bodie fast asleep with his head on a table. Someone had kindly draped what looked and smelt like a horse blanket over him. He stirred and looked round.

"'Lo, Ray," he said, yawning. "That's better. What's the time?"

Doyle consulted his watch. "Nearly eight, and it's starting to snow again. Jos has seen to the horses and I've been playing 'Z Cars' at PC Jeffers'. That's a very nice wife and family he has. I found the inspector at Gretton was in the Met. same time I was. Glad to get out to the sticks, he said. Get the milking done?"

"I never want to see another udder," said Bodie, stretching. "It's the reproachful look on their faces, as though you have cold hands or something. God, I'm aching to the elbows and I'm on again tomorrow."

"Ah," said Doyle. "I think your boudoir is needed for someone else. Come on, Butch, let's go home."

 

After feeding their animals they settled by the fireside, Amos curled on Doyle's knee purring like an engine.

Doyle sniffed. "I swear I can smell cowshed," he said. "That and the tantalising perfume of Jeyes Fluid. I hope you've had a good wash?"

"You have to scrub up these days before they let you touch a cow," said Bodie. "And you could eat off Fred's milking-shed floor, it's that clean. Spent half the morning boiling water on his Aga to get everything washed down, and us."

"What time do you have to be off?" asked Doyle. "I suppose you have it all planned out."

"They'll pick me up at the end of the lane round five," said Bodie. "So I'm thinking of an early night. I'm knackered anyway."

Doyle got up and removed a hot brick carefully from the side oven, with some swearing as he wrapped it in an old blanket. An intense smell of burning wool arose.

"For me? Oh, Ray, you shouldn't - "

"For us," said Doyle. "My blasted blanket's off, isn't it? And there's more room in your bed." He grinned. "And I'm pleased to hear you're knackered. Try not to wake me when you dash off to the milking."

oOo

Several days later Bodie shook the snow from his jacket and peered across the candlelit kitchen. Doyle, now with several days' growth of greying beard was struggling to write, his mittened hands clutching a pencil.

"God, you look beautiful in this light, Celia," said Bodie.

"Fuck off," said Doyle. "I've given up on the lights ever coming on again. Keep expecting to see wolves padding across the yard, looking at poor Flash and salivating. Which reminds me, we are getting low on hay and that for those two straw converters."

"I know," said Bodie. "I'll haul the sledge up to Jess's and get some more later. She's still got plenty in hand. What's for dinner?" He looked into the pan boiling on the Aga. "Oh goodie, stew and dumplings again," he said glumly.

"I keep telling you we can't cook cordon 'blue' on an Aga," said Doyle. "Or at least, I can't find how to in the cookery book. I must ask about that. How are you and the Friesians getting on?"

"Jerseys," said Bodie. "I swear one of them, CF35 I think her number is, knows me. Her little face lights up."

"Oh Gawd," said Doyle. "All right, we know you're irresistible, there will be another broken heart when the lecky comes back on, poor dumb beast. Here, have a taste and see if that's done yet."

Bodie chewed reflectively. "Tastes all right," he said. "You still working on the book?"

"Just the last few pages," said Doyle as he dished up. "Suddenly realised that we needed a couple more sentences at the end while I was sitting at the cop shop. I've been invited over to Gretton Station for coffee and lunch with the lads if the snow ever melts. Saw they were working on the lines again. Get some wine out, will you? It won't need chilling."

Doyle moved slowly to the sideboard for the cutlery and Bodie watched him for a moment.

"And what else have you been doing?" he asked. "Your leg wasn't that stiff this morning."

"Probably the hike to the Brewers, then sitting all afternoon at Jeffers' place," said Doyle.

"Oh, nothing to do with the sleigh run the lads had at Brosters Hill?" Bodie inquired affably.

"Ratbag!" yelled Doyle. "Who snitched? I couldn't resist it. Had three good runs till I hit a stump."

"Half the village," said Bodie. "They were very impressed with your technique. Wish I was small enough to fit on a sledge."

"I've just had a great thought," said Doyle as they ate. "Halliwell can't get at me for the final revision of the book."

"He's probably training a couple of carrier pigeons. Or sending out a long-distance skier. I presume the rest of the country is coping. Battery still going on the radio?"

"Just. Things have been bad in London - they even had some trains cancelled. Terrible privations. You know, I'm in favour of us declaring UDI and never rejoining the UK. We don't need them after all."

"Spoken like a true Lartonian," said Bodie. "I'll get Jess to knit us a flag. Personally, I've enjoyed your electric blanket being off, which has forced you to invade my privacy in search of warmth and companionship."

"A gentleman," said Doyle primly, "would not have taken advantage of the situation. Mind, there's something to be said for having a chat at 3 a.m. when my insomnia's bad. Even when you leave me at five o'clock, cold and alone."

Bodie looked up. "What's that flickering?"

"The lights!" yelled Doyle. "That's what I've missed, being able to read at night without risking singeing my hair."

"Oh damn," said Bodie. "We'll have to cancel the revolution."

oOo

"It's a funny thing," Doyle said, early that summer, in Mr Halliwell's office. "While I'm writing the damned book it's hell, and when it's done I can't think what to do with myself. I'm sick of crime. I'll have to think of something else.

"Oh, thanks for the champagne for my birthday. We both enjoyed it. Bodie's made sure I don't leave him, he gave me Sarah for my birthday. Be company while he's away, he said. She's lovely, too. Great dark eyes - comes just up to here," he gestured. "Sort of a soft dove grey with the proper cross and everything on her back. Of course, he told me he'd saved her from being fed to the Beaufort Hounds for lunch. I've seen her papers. She's got a better pedigree than Bodie has. Very intelligent, donkeys. They do a lot of standing and thinking, not like horses. Piper and Flash now, bless 'em, haven't got much upstairs. Bodie got one of those pannier baskets from Ireland. Pop it on Sarah's back and she's a walking wheelbarrow. We go off for walks together, collecting stuff, and if I get tired she can give me a lift, too. The lads think she's great. I was afraid at first they might take advantage of her till Bodie," here Doyle went rather pink, "explained they couldn't. You know how he is."

"Mr Bodie has a countryman's robust attitude to sex," said Mr Halliwell.

"I'll say. I could have crawled under the table when he explained to that young lady at the literary lunch just why her horse made that funny noise when he was walking. You don't want to know. Next thing I knew, this ex-cavalry bod joined us, gave his six penn'orth to the discussion and they went off in a huddle for the rest of the afternoon."

"Yes, I remember you enjoyed that literary lunch," said Mr Halliwell. "Waterstone's would like you to do a book signing in their main bookshop. You spoke highly of them once, I remember."

"I don't understand why people should want to see me," said Doyle. "They have that awful picture on the dust wrapper, I would have thought that was enough."

"Well," said Mr Halliwell, "people like meeting their favourite author and having a chance to tell him how much they enjoy his writing. Perfectly natural reaction. Now, they did suggest either the twenty-first or the twenty-eighth of next month. Which date would be preferable to you?" He was well aware Doyle's preference would be to avoid the whole thing.

"Well, Bodie has to be up in London on the twenty-eighth to hear from the Board about that job. I'd like to be up here, too. I can either celebrate with him, or tell him they're idiots if he doesn't get it. Mind, they would be idiots to turn him down."

"I'll arrange it for the twenty-eighth then," said Mr Halliwell briskly, thinking how providential it was that he had met Mr Bodie in A.J. Allen's bookshop the fortnight before.

oOo

Bodie looked with pleasure at the display in Waterstone's window. They were doing the lad proud. That was a much better picture of Ray. He entered and purchased his copy of 'Murder at the Manor' before joining the queue. Mr Halliwell hurried over to him.

"Ah, Mr Bodie, I'm glad you could get here early. We'll be closing down for lunch in thirty minutes. All going very well so far. How did the interview go?"

"The job's mine," said Bodie with a wide grin. "I'm looking forward to telling Ray. I know he's been worrying for me. I can tell him at lunch and we can celebrate later."

 

Doyle glanced at the still lengthy queue. Now, how did that line from Macbeth go? What, will the line stretch out to th' crack of doom! Certainly looks like it.

After the fourth person had said to him, "I thought you'd be so much older," he began to wonder if he'd better drop the line from his biography on the book jacket about being an ex-policeman. Who were they expecting, George Dixon? Come to think of it, Bodie had thought he'd be older when they met the first time. Mustn't think about Bodie. Hope he's doing OK at that interview.

He turned to the next book. Yes, he did find writing books hard work. He'd once thrown a foot-thick pile of manuscript across a room when he found it wasn't working out. No, he didn't think he'd ever write a book about politics, there were too many books on politics being written already, usually by politicians who couldn't write for toffees. Funny, that man had looked familiar. Here comes another.

"Could you sign 'To William' for me, sor?" said a confiding Irish voice.

Doyle looked up. "You never went and bought a copy yourself?"

"Indeed I did," was the indignant answer. "Haven't I been an admirer of yours for years?"

"Can tell you're a Birmingham man," said Doyle signing 'To William, my favourite pain in the neck'. "Cut the accent, will you, Bodie? You're scaring the customers."

Bodie grinned. "Only ten minutes, then you're off for lunch."

As they were packing up Doyle looked at Halliwell. "That fella in front of Bodie, who was he? He looked familiar."

Mr Halliwell told him.

"Oh well," said Doyle. "Bang go my chances of being in the Honours List. And you, you mad idiot. You've got the job, haven't you? I can tell."

"Our lunch is waiting," said Mr Halliwell. "On the house. With, I think, added champagne."

"Definitely," said Doyle. "And I'll sign as many as come with a smile on my face this afternoon."

oOo

"Ah, there are you, William," said Lord Bicester with relief as his brother-in-law entered the CLA tent at the County Show. "Well, how did Miranda go?" he inquired. "I couldn't stand to watch the class myself."

"A good first," said Bodie. "She never put a hoof wrong. Could do a lot with that girl, she's got plenty of grit."

Jack nodded. "Yes," he said reflectively. "Funny how the fillies often turn out the best. Come on, man, sit down and have a drink."

Bodie seated himself with relief and accepted a glass of excellent sherry; it had been a tiring day. As usual, the Country Landowners Association were doing themselves proud.

"Colonel de Beynon Cresswell won the Friesian class," said Bodie. "I've left Ashley chatting to him. He brought that animal Nina all the way from Wiltshire."

"One in the eye for Fred then, isn't it?" said Jack. "Good thing, too."

"What's the collection box out there for?" asked Bodie, looking over the literature provided. "No, I don't see the need for a swimming-pool."

"Us," said Jack gloomily. "An endangered species, that's what we are. I was saying to Agnes, if we don't pull our socks up and make ourselves heard, in less than a hundred years we'll all be extinct and there won't be a mile of open country between London and Birmingham. Agnes thinks I should get up in the House and have a word about it."

Bodie looked at him inquiringly. "The House?"

"Of Lords, of course," said Lord Bicester. "I haven't made my maiden speech yet. It could be worth a trip up to the damned place. Pity you have only an Irish title, William, or you could come up and have a word yourself."

Bodie, gazing in awe at his brother-in-law, was devoutly thankful he was barred from the august assembly. Can't wait to tell Ray, he thought.

"When you go up I'll be in the gallery lending my support," he said gallantly. "I see the usual crowd's here," he added, looking about.

"Yes," said Lord Bicester without enthusiasm. "And we had to buy another bottle of champagne. Fella came up and did the horseshoe puzzle. Usually takes 'em two days to work it out. Wispy little fella in jeans, Brocklehurst said. Very strong hands though. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, William?"

"Me? No," said Bodie. I thought Ray would manage it.

"Bugger," said Jack. "Look out, Mendip's coming over."

There was a mass exit from the tent, apart from those trapped into dispensing hospitality, who gazed after the flight of the craven with wounded expressions.

 

"Mr Doyle!" called an imperious voice.

Doyle, not wishing to lose his place in the Breton Pancake queue, slipped even closer to the burly guy in front of him and prayed Agnes would think she was mistaken.

"It's all right," hissed Ashley, "she's gone on."

"Good," said Doyle, adding sotto voce, "and make up your mind," as the person in front dithered over his pancake filling.

"Perfect show fodder, this," he said as he passed a pancake to Ashley. "Neat, filling, you don't get all sticky and a coke can be held in the other hand without difficulty."

Ashley made a sound of muffled assent as they wandered on, chewing reflectively. For once the curse of the English country show, lashings of rain, had not struck and it was a really warm day - almost frightening. Ashley started to talk about the need for organic farming and to diversify crops, his usual line of chat these days. Doyle listened with half an ear while wondering where Bodie had got to, the CLA tent being almost empty except for a large, red-faced individual, quite unknown to him.

"There's mother," said Ashley. "See you." He dashed off to assist Jess, who had apparently purchased a small tree, which was fighting back.

Doyle made his way to the trade stands. Yes, everything for the horse and its ailments. Sure enough, Bodie was there.

"Knew I'd find you window-shopping," said Doyle. "I've settled Sarah back in the van. First time I've ever won a cup. Well, I know it's hers really but..." He gazed without rapture at the serried ranks of Stableyard Louse Powder, Stockholm Vegetable Tar, Equival, which sees off those distressing intestinal worms about which he had heard far too much, and Vitaminised Molasses. Bodie was prising the lid off a tin of Clop (garlic, honey and now with added biotin and folic acid). Doyle watched aghast as Bodie stuck a finger in and tasted a hefty dollop.

"Yes, I think Piper will enjoy some of this," said Bodie happily.

"Bodie! I do wish you wouldn't do things like that. Yuck! You look pleased with yourself. I heard Miranda won in her class."

"Yes. What with Sarah and Jess's gingerbread, the ladies have had a good show. You enjoyed showing her, didn't you? I knew you would."

Doyle grinned. "Would never have believed ten years ago that I'd end up here in the depths of the country with you and a prizewinning jenny. Hey, listen, I'm not going to be seeing you at the Olympia Horse Show at Christmas, riding round in fishnet tights with a rose in your teeth, am I?"

Bodie, busy paying for his, or rather Piper's, Clop nearly fell apart. "No, you daft bat," he said finally. "I'm strictly behind the scenes. I leave that to the young and frivolous, and those who look better in fishnet tights. You might get a shot of me telling someone off in the collecting ring."

"When did you say you're starting the training season?" asked Doyle.

"Beginning of September. Pity it's not Ireland so you could be with me."

"No," said Doyle. "I can't take to the Brits the way I did your lads. Funny, really. We had a letter from Con. He'd like you to be godfather to the new baby, and Auntie Alice has invited us back to Galway. So I thought we'd grab a fortnight before you started work."

Bodie stared at him. "You want to go?"

"I do. I've received a very nice advance from Mr Halliwell. The book is doing well and there are murmurings about film rights. So I thought a week in Dublin in luxury at the Shelbourne for me, soaking up atmosphere and doing the libraries. You can be down in Galway, galloping about getting all wet and muddy, then I'll join you."

Bodie grinned. "We've got to you at last," he said in triumph.

"Yeah, must be the Celtic mists rotting my brain."

Bodie paused. "Just a moment," he said suspiciously. "Why are you in the Shelbourne soaking up atmosphere and paying a lot of money to do it?"

"Oh, just for my next book," said Doyle lightly. "It came to me a fortnight ago when I was scrubbing out some pots in the greenhouse. I'm going to do a book on the Anglo-Irish in decline. Thought I'd call it 'That Thy Tears Might Cease'. It has a nice ring to it."

"It's been used already," said Bodie. "Oh God, you're not really, are you?"

"Of course I am. It has great possibilities - pathos, humour, tragedy, the inevitability of change, sex..."

"Not in Ireland," said Bodie. "It's not allowed."

"Rubbish. Now, as well as the research - and I see this as a two-year job at least - and with the book being a success and money coming in - I'm not worried about bills at the moment. Then I need to meet some people. I thought you would come in handy there, having the right connections. I've made out this list for starters." He fished a crumpled piece of paper out of his back jeans pocket.

Bodie looked at it. "This could be difficult," he remarked. "Great-Uncle Arthur has been in a home for the bewildered for years. And the first three are dead. Where did you get these names from?" he inquired.

"Burke's in Gretton Library is a little out of date, is it? I thought it might be."

"Considerably," said Bodie. "At least five others to my knowledge have given up, sold out and gone to live in the Home Counties. And in any case, no way am I helping you do a hatchet job on my countrymen."

"I'll put your name on the book with mine," said Doyle coaxingly. "With a mention of how helpful you were."

"No," said Bodie. "I have no wish to be blackballed in every club in Dublin."

"You only belong to one," said Doyle. "And that's full of old military rips like yourself. Come on, stop menacing. You know me, fair but honest."

"But you don't really like us," said Bodie. "I see you go rigid with disapproval every time we visit Aunt Alice."

"Listen," said Doyle, "I adore you, it just takes time for me to adjust to your fellows there. And stop standing there muttering, there's no queue at the Pancake stand now and I fancy another one. What's the matter? You've gone all pink."

"I've just realised what you said. And stop trying to soft-soap me. If I don't think you're being fair or accurate, I pull out, agreed?"

"Of course," said Doyle. "Let's do a proper job on this one, and if you see my prejudices are showing, hit me over the head. What do you say? I'm really going to need your help on this one."

"All right," said Bodie. "My treat. What do you fancy?"


End file.
